Breaking Points
by Keshka
Summary: K/S slash-preslash. When the Enterprise is asked to transport Vulcan colonists to their new home, Spock Prime comes with them. His presence changes everything – even the things Jim isn’t sure he wants to change.
1. Chapter 1

**WARNING**: This is definitely not as polished as some of my other work. It finishes at about 40000 words or so, and the length has made it harder for me to be picky – a fact I'm trying to live with! This is quite a long one for me. I usually only do shorts in new fandoms I'm having fun with. Nevertheless, I hope you like it – I found it very interesting working with an actual plot around what is rapidly becoming my favorite pairing of all time. Cheers!

**NOTE**: There are quite a few TOS references in this story, however, I have written it in such a way (I hope) that for people who have seen TOS, the context will be enjoyable, but for those that haven't, it shouldn't detract any understanding from the story. Well, that's how it's supposed to work anyway.

~*~

Breaking Points - Chapter One

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Jim realizes that command of a Starship comes with certain drawbacks.

~*~

James Kirk was no stranger to the rapid, and often inexplicable, changes that life could bring to a person. But even he had to admit that his unprecedented rise from juvenile delinquent, to Starfleet cadet, to Captain of a constitution class starship, had even him scrambling to roll with the punches. The fact that it happened in the wake of one the most tragic losses ever to mark the history books only added to his general sense of bewilderment.

Not that he let on to anyone else about his disorientation, riding just beneath his more prominent feelings of triumph and excitement. Command of a starship! A Kirk once again in the service. His mother, bright-eyed and strong-willed and the only person he'd ever had any interest in listening to as a child, had com'd him just last night to tell him how very proud she was of him. Jim had been outright boisterous, energetic and high-strung, keeping her laughing and shouting and just generally not-crying as they celebrated the news in the best ways two people separated by light years of space could do.

He couldn't tell her about the wild doubts he had in himself, the uneasiness that ate away at his confidence, that though the Enterprise was his to command he might fail her or her crew at any moment. Or that he might not live up to the image of his long-dead father, or be strong enough to make the decisions he'd made. That Lieutenant-Commander Spock's Kobayashi Maru, damn his pointed ears, might prove to be his undoing after all.

For the most part, these nagging doubts and incessant worries bothered him only a little, and his normal exuberance did the rest. And yet there were times at night, wandering the empty corridors of his ship or lying sleepless in his bed, that he couldn't help but wonder if he was truly ready for what was out there.

But Jim knew, probably better than most, that life didn't slow down in the face of uncertainty; it kept on, unceasing, just as it always had. The first few days of his command passed relatively peacefully, with only the barest friction to mark the new crewmembers beginning to firmly settle in with the old ones. Efficiency ratings rose and fell predictably, and Jim tried not to fret over it. He could hardly expect the entire Enterprise crew to mesh like a well-oiled machine when they were barely three days out of space dock.

When he mentioned it to the good doctor, Bones' only comment had been, "I may be a miracle worker, Jim, but some things take more than a shot from a hypo. Give it time." Having had personal and unpleasant experience with these hypos, Jim more than agreed that they were oftentimes useless and the two of them had celebrated their understanding with a bottle of something with absolutely no redeeming nutritional value – on account of its staggering alcoholic content. The resulting evening of revelry had put Jim at an all-time high for at least twenty-four hours. Good old Bones.

He took to exploring the Enterprise at every opportunity, wandering the bridge during shift and taking in the different stations and accessibility of his ship with pleasure. And at night he walked the corridors of the long and winding halls throughout the interior, sometimes finding something productive to do and sometimes not, until he often returned to his quarters winded and dirty and grinning from ear to ear.

And when he slept, his mind traversed those same corridors, full of forgotten boyhood wonder and eagerness.

The first night of his command that Jim Kirk dreamed of something other than the Enterprise, there was no boyhood wonder to be found. It was a dream full, instead, with images that felt real enough to burn him, images of a planet blazing in red, pulling apart from the inside like an ancient hourglass, rock and ash draining to a tiny pinprick center. And amidst the ruin, a whirlwind of pain and death - and a terrible, agonizing sense of loneliness. He woke to a pounding heart and a face damp with sweat and what might have been tears, if he'd been in any frame of mind to admit it. He took deep breaths, as deep as his initial horror would permit, pressing his hands into his eyes until he saw stars, chest heaving at the effort of control.

He was not on Vulcan. Not on Vulcan, which was dead and buried and gone. He was on board the Enterprise, his ship. The floor was made of solid deck plating, not sand. The walls were white or gray, not red; there were no towers of rock here, no arid desert air. It was a dream, nothing more. A dream that had felt so real he could have reached out to touch it, of a planet that he couldn't possibly know but somehow did, recognizing it with the same familiarity he carried of his own Iowa, his own Earth. It took him many minutes to stop shaking, many more to calm his erratic pulse, and there was no further sleep for him that night.

It was two days after that, five days since their departure from Earth, that the universe threw a small but hefty wrench into Jim's plans for the start of a very successful command career.

"Captain."

Jim turned to regard Uhura, standing at relaxed attention at her communications station, and he had to consciously shut down the immediate urge to leer in her general direction. Wow, having a woman he'd regularly flirted with under his direct command was going to take some getting used to. Really, seriously, a lot of getting used to.

"What is it Uhura?"

"New orders from Starfleet Command coming in. Priority channel one. Sir." That tacked on 'sir' at that end gave him some comfort. At least he wasn't the only one having trouble adjusting.

"Patch it through here, Lieutenant." He gestured to the small visual panel next to his command chair. Video feed came through moments later, solidifying into the face of Admiral Komack, looking about as disagreeable as always. Jim had hoped that in the grand scheme of things he and Komack would have very little to do with one another, but considering the man had been at both his academic hearing and at his promotion ceremony, he doubted that was going to be the case. Rumor had it that Komack was one of the few critics in the upper echelons of Starfleet that had wanted to ground Jim rather than award him a commendation for his circumvention of the Kobayashi Maru (and thank goodness Starfleet had seen the light on that one, although he wasn't sure they'd had much choice after the debacle with Vulcan). Jim supposed, suppressing his wicked grin, that it hadn't at all improved the man's mood to hear about his miraculous rise from cadet to Captain.

He sobered. He might not have gotten that promotion if not for the recommendations of his crew (Bones had been the loudest, and half the time he hadn't been sure if the man was defending him or condemning him) and the distinct lack of competent commanding officers remaining after the destruction of half the fleet at Vulcan. While he wasn't above feeling some pride at his well-earned acclaim, he had to remind himself of the immense loss of life that had preceded it.

"Admiral Komack," he said presently, putting his quiet contemplations aside for another day. "What can we do for you today. Sir."

Komack's lips tightened visibly at what he rightly identified as a deliberate lack of respect, and Jim guiltily acknowledged that maybe it was time to bury the hatchet of old grievances. He had to work with these people, after all, and he was a Captain now. He couldn't afford to destroy all he'd worked for just because of a misplaced word or two up the chain of command.

"Kirk, you've been ordered to rendezvous immediately with the Starship Potemkin in the Antares system, currently en route to the new Vulcan colony. You will transport over their complement of passengers, two hundred in all, and proceed with them and their cargo to the colony in the Potemkin's place. Another ship will be assigned your patrol for the duration of your new orders."

Jim stared at the tiny image of the admiral, wondering if it was the lackluster video quality that made him appear irritatingly superior, or if that was just the man's regular state of being. "Sir, the Enterprise hasn't even had a chance to complete her first mission yet, surely there are other vessels in the area –"

"A biological contaminant has destroyed over fifty percent of the food and water supply on Tau Ceti II, and it is Starfleet's judgment that only the Potemkin, in the immediate area, has the necessary scientific equipment to render assistance. You are the closest starship to their location with enough additional space to take on the burden of their passengers without loss of time or efficiency."

"Admiral," he pressed, not at all certain what he was going to say but needing to say it anyway, "the Enterprise is hardly equipped with suitable quarters for over two hundred passengers –"

"You'll do, _Captain _Kirk. Have a care and remember that Starfleet command is here to assign missions based on the best allotment of resources, not to pander to your whims. This subject is closed. Your have your orders. Komack, Starfleet command, out."

The image blurred and disappeared, while Jim scrambled to close his mouth and regain some of the dignity Komack has just yanked out from under him. _Pander to his whims?_ And to think, not moments ago he'd been worried that lack of respect was going to get _him _in trouble. God, he really didn't like that man.

Recovered from his unexpected – and surely undeserved, he thought in irritation – dressing-down, he slumped back into the command chair, momentarily giving in to his annoyance. Then he shook it off, aware that he was setting a poor example for the officers on the bridge (sometimes being the big, bad, constantly-under-surveillance-by-the-rest-of-the-crew Captain just – sucked). He slapped his hands on his knees and stood with his hands tucked on his hips.

"Well. I suppose that, as they say, is that. Mr. Sulu, plot an interception course with the Potemkin. Lieutenant Uhura, I assume Starfleet transmitted her exact coordinates along with our new orders?"

"Yes, sir."

"Feed them over to Mr. Sulu's station, if you please." He turned, regarding his bridge and the competent officers aboard it, finally settling on his Vulcan First, who turned in his chair at the science station to regard his Captain. Jim smiled at him, somewhat grimly, and strolled over, full of fitful energy. He noted with amusement that the closer he drew, the higher the arch of the Vulcan's left eyebrow.

"Well, Spock, first week out and we're already being asked to pose as a transport ferry for a bunch of civilians. Wonder how fast Scotty'll be willing to push his engines so we can drop them off and get back to our regular patrol." Spock said nothing. Seeing the man blinking at him solemnly, Jim was abruptly reminded that the people he'd been so blithely resigning himself to transporting were potentially the last of the Vulcan species. The last of his Vulcan First officer's species.

_Oops_, he thought. Jim wasn't big on politically correct behavior, but even he could see how his last comment might be viewed as just a little boorish.

"Sorry, Spock," he murmured, though it galled him to withdraw anything he said, especially publicly. Bones would probably tell him it was just a sign that he was growing up or something. "That was insensitive."

"Not at all, Captain. Your comment was neither inaccurate nor entirely unexpected. I will, however, recommend that you assign another officer to see to our passengers' needs and requirements for the duration of their stay. For diplomacy's sake."

Ouch. Right, that would teach him to make nice with the stiff-necked Vulcan.

"I'll leave it in your capable hands, Mr. Spock."

The Vulcan inclined his head in assent and Jim found himself itching to respond in kind, deliver a not-so-congenial response to that irritatingly impassive visage. He wondered if it would always be like this between them, both of them striving to offset the other, seeing challenges where none had been meant.

"Don't forget to stock the stores with Vulcan Plomeek soup, Spock, and no throwing it at the wall this time either," he muttered.

"Captain?" He frowned at the other man, noting the two eyebrows raised sharply in surprise. Hadn't Spock thrown soup at the wall once before? But no, that didn't seem possible, given the circumstances of the only time he'd ever seen the other out of control. He must have been thinking of someone else. He turned away from that inquiring gaze, suddenly unsettled.

"Duty calls, gentlemen. Mr. Sulu, plot an interception course for the Potemkin and take her out at warp two."

"Aye, sir."

The hours that followed their change in orders were tedious, chafing like a badly worn pair of shoes. Most of the ship was busy frantically attempting to convert all available living space into quarters for the Vulcan contingent soon to befall their ship. There wasn't a lot a captain could do to assist in the matter, though Jim noticed the rest of the bridge crew found themselves busy enough coordinating with their various departments as supplies and instructions changed hands faster than a cadet late to his morning class. Jim tried not to sulk too obviously. Not that patrolling the borders of Federation space was anything to cheer about, but it had been the Enterprise's first command, and Jim had been looking forward to completing it with admirable, if bored, efficiency. Now, even that small pleasure had been snatched away, and he was, in a word, quite grouchy about the whole thing.

"Buck up Jim, things could be worse you know."

He turned to regard his old friend. His new chief of medicine had taken to frequently haunting the bridge during his duty shifts if there was nothing in sickbay that required his attention, and Jim hadn't yet decided if it was a curse or a blessing. McCoy made for an excellent and entertaining conversationalist, but there were two things the man was renowned for being: a doctor of medicine, and a world-class nag. And he did them both with a similar level of skill and reliability.

"Bones, if you don't stop pestering me, I'm going to drop you at the nearest Starbase and replace you with one of your nurses."

"And force someone else to deal with the consequences of your next set of imbecilic stunts? I don't think even Starfleet nurses are trained to put up with that, Jim."

"Why don't you go stab someone with one of your hypo's and stop bothering me, for a change?"

"It's a funny thing; the only person I have the urge to stab these days is you."

Jim sighed. Loudly. A friend McCoy might be, but there were some days where you'd never have known it.

"Captain, coming up on the Antares system. Estimated arrival time to the Potemkin is six minutes, sir."

"Thank you, Mr. Sulu. Uhura, contact their quartermaster for additional supplies and send my regards to her captain. Mr. Chekov, taking into account our new passenger contingent, estimated travel time to the new Vulcan colony?"

A few quiet acknowledgements beeped as his youngest bridge officer competently worked at his station. "Approximately ten days, fourteen hours sir, assuming a relative travel speed of warp three or better." He took a moment to decode the ensign's heavily accented English. That could prove interesting if he ever needed to rely on the man (boy?) in a crisis.

So, just shy of a week and a half with two hundred passengers aboard, each of them clamoring for room and facilities. Oh, joy. He now had no doubts that Komack himself had been behind this lovely little mission assignment, and that allotment of resources had had nothing at all to do with it.

"Thank you, Mr. Chekov," he grumbled. "Mr. Spock, you have the conn. I think it's time to see to our guests."

The Vulcan had been in the process of standing and paused hesitantly, halfway out of his station chair. "Captain –"

"Diplomacy can start tomorrow Mr. Spock. The bridge is yours."

Jim took a certain guiltily vindictive satisfaction in seeing the stifled look of chagrin Spock always seemed to get whenever something was particularly irritating him. Jim took a perverse pride in being the person to put that look on his face at least once a day.

"Aye, sir."

A small part of him noted and filed away that this would also, conveniently, free his first officer from having to man the station where, the last time a group of Vulcans had been seen gracing it, he'd had to process the death of his mother.

But that was only a very small part, he assured himself. And surely not at all obvious to anyone but him, thank God. He had a definite reputation to maintain.

So that was how Jim found himself manning the transporter pad, beaming up Vulcan refugees in groups of fives and sixes. It was absolute bedlam, ensigns and midshipmen rushing to and fro with baggage, supplies and room assignments, cargo containers, food, clothing, and various other necessities. The Vulcan passengers turned out to be the least chaotic part of the entire thing, projecting nothing so much as an air of resignation as they each waited, quite rigidly calm, for instructions on their individual quarters for the next two weeks. Seeing face after face of complete blankness moving smoothly in the midst of such chaos gave Jim chills he couldn't quite explain. He regretted ever handing over command to Spock. Maybe he could tell him he hadn't meant it and would very much appreciate it if he could give it back, please and thank you.

It was as he was in the process of beaming up the last three sets of passengers (and inwardly cheering – huzzah, it was almost over) that something completely unexpected happened.

Beneath the sparkle of the transporter beam, busy recombining molecules in its particular fashion, and watching the latest group of four materialize, Jim saw a familiar face. A very familiar face. After the parade of Vulcans that had come and gone through this room, most of their faces had begun to look alike, but this one was different. This was the face of a friend he'd never have. And might never have again if he didn't find some way of communicating with Spock that didn't involve sniping at each other over every minor inconvenience.

Granted, the man looked somewhat different without his thick, confining winter jacket bundled around him, but the figure was unmistakable, nonetheless. Though he knew, watching the materialization fade, that he should be formulating a greeting, preparing passenger assignments, delegating the luggage grunt work to the ensign practically hopping at his side, for a moment all of that faded into the background, buried beneath a veritable mountain of surprise.

Jim wasn't sure why he hadn't considered the odds of this happening, but he had to admit, if only to himself, that the possibility hadn't occurred to him that he would ever see Ambassador Spock again. Especially not with First Officer Spock (the younger, more arrogant version) not half a ship away from here, currently at the helm of this newly appointed transport ship.

In a complete one-eighty, he was once again immensely grateful that he'd saddled Spock with the conn for the duration of the passenger exchange.

"Ambassador Sp –" He caught himself just in time, seeing the look of interest that had been gracing those features jumping to the Vulcan equivalent of alarm at his near slip. "Ambassador," he settled on, merely nodding.

"Captain," the other greeted, stepping down from the transporter pad, followed closely by two others, an elder and a young male, as well as a very young female child Jim could see lurking just beside the older Spock's leg. Jim was no judge of Vulcan biology, but he'd place her age at no greater than seven or eight Earth years.

He bemusedly wondered at the fickle nature of a universe that would lead to the improbable coincidence of this second meeting between old friends. If the first one had been unlikely, this one must surely be astronomical.

He stepped away from the transporter controls. "Ensign."

The eager looking young man who'd been vibrating at his side snapped to attention with a speed that made Jim wince in sympathy. Thank God he'd never been that dedicated to formality. "Sir!"

"Hunt down one of the transporter techs and ask them to beam up the remaining two groups of passengers. I'll see to the needs of this group."

The crewman stared at him, seeming at a loss for words, and Jim gave him a look that clearly said, that was an order, ensign, and where's your salute? – which quickly resulted in another hastily cried "sir!" and the resulting flurry of activity needed to find the transporter tech in question.

Jim smiled the smile of the wicked at the man who regarded him with such solemnly disguised pleasure. "Well," he said, propping his hip against the control console. "Fancy meeting you here."

"Indeed. It is a singularly pleasing coincidence seeing you again, old friend." _Who was he calling old?_ Jim thought. "May I introduce you to the rest of my party? The respected elder T'Pela, former matron of the Temple of Amonak." The elder, who was so steeped in age Jim had been having trouble identifying her gender, bowed politely to him, not a trace of expression on her face. "Stolvik, a mechanical engineer with a background in environmental control systems." The young male, the first Vulcan Jim could ever remember seeing with such a richly dark pigment to their skin, also bowed formally. "And lastly, T'Sai, a refugee from one of the Southern provinces." The youngest member of the party, the frail looking female child, did not bow, nor even look in his direction. Her gaze remained fixed firmly on the ground, but from the absolute stillness in her posture Jim doubted very much that she was actually seeing the floor. He thought her gaze might be on something far more meaningful and far less tangible than the carpeted starship decking beneath her.

Uncomfortably reminded of the depth of the loss these people had suffered, Jim looked askance at the older Spock, wondering how to ask him without it looking suspicious –

"And of course, Captain Kirk is already aware that he may address me as Solkar," Spock was talking to the other two Vulcan adults, thankfully drawing their attention away from the look of relief on Jim's face. "He and I met on a previous endeavor of his, and discovered that we make a formidable team of, as Humans would say, 'miracle workers'."

"Fascinating," T'Pela commented, looking interested. Jim hurriedly stepped up onto the short staircase, lifting two cases of luggage down from the pad.

"You can leave these here. Bring only those things you think are essential. The rest of it will have to be stored in the cargo bays while we travel to your new colony. We simply don't have the kind of room to provide space in all of your individual rooms."

"That will be acceptable, of course, Captain," the male, Stolvik, said quietly, assisting in the sorting of baggage and supply crates. Several midshipmen, who'd been silently lurking until now, hurried forward to remove the indicated parcels from the transporter room.

"I'll show you to your quarters. Since you came up together I presume you have no objection to sharing space? We are somewhat – limited."

The Vulcans indicated their agreement. Jim glanced down at the child, T'Sai, uncertainly. Being as she was so young, any of these three could be related to her in some way (it made his brain ache to think of the Ambassador being related to anyone this far into his past). Undecided, he looked to Spock for information, immediately turning his eyes away when the older man gave him a quick glance and subtle, silent shake of the head, placing his own hand on her tiny shoulder. Ah. It was like that then. Trying not to feel sad for her, he picked up one of the smaller bags of necessary supplies and stepped toward the doorway.

"This way please, gentlemen. Ladies."

It was pandemonium in the corridors, of course. Only the sight of their Captain walking casually through the hallways was enough to stop most of the crew in their tracks, snapping off hasty salutes and acknowledgements that he returned, somewhat exasperated with the whole thing. Someday soon he was going to have to teach this crew about the merits of informality.

When they arrived at the quarters allotted to their group, he set down the bags he'd been carrying. Gesturing towards T'Pela and Stolvik, he waved them toward the starboard facing room. "Here we are, home sweet home. It looks like two people to each, so that one's yours." They nodded to him and quickly disappeared inside, taking their luggage with them. He turned to face Spock, disappointed that T'Sai's presence prevented them from speaking more candidly, though he didn't mind the extra leeway to reign in his astonishment at this unexpected meeting.

"Well, this will be your room for the duration Sp- Solkar. T'Sai is quartered with you. You'll let me know if you need anything?"

"I shall," the Vulcan agreed, eyes positively dancing in his direction. "I look forward to more opportunities to speak to you during the course of this mission, Captain."

"So do I," Jim said softly, and was surprised to note that, even though it seemed the most convoluted situation ever, he really did mean that. It would be a neat trick concealing the depth of his knowledge about this man around, say, people like McCoy and his first officer, but he'd pull it off somehow. He wasn't going to miss this opportunity for the world.

The door slid shut behind his old friend from another life. Jim went back to work doing what he did best and told himself to get over it and calm down before one of his crewmembers noticed their Captain walking through the ship with an enormous shit-eating grin plastered all over his face.

Something told him this was going to be very, very interesting.

End Chapter One.

Feedback is not only appreciated, but will be snuggled close like a good teddy bear and perhaps given cookies. I will try to post a chapter every two days or so. Ohhh, this fandom is just so exciting! Squee!


	2. Chapter 2

*Note: I changed the time frame a bit. Previously I mentioned in chapter one that this story began only five days after the Enterprise left Earth, but I've extended that. Consider that now this new mission takes place two weeks later. Hey, I'm flying by the seat of my pants here! What can I say? Oops!

~*~

Breaking Points - Chapter Two

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Where Jim starts to realize how unusual it is to dream about dead planets that aren't your own.

~*~

As it turned out, Jim didn't get much chance to see Spock, either Spock, for the next little while. Where previously he'd been bemoaning the fact that a captain had little to do with new requisition assignments for quarters, supplies, and other eccentricities, that was before the paperwork hit his desk. If he'd known that taking on two hundred passengers was going to make this much of a mess out of his in-box, he might seriously have considered disobeying Starfleet orders and going AWOL just to save himself some grief.

The following day, after numerous checks and rechecks of ship's systems and passenger compliment, the Enterprise left the Antares system, en route to the new Vulcan colony. Jim was curious enough to want to know more about the location that had been chosen, but he was far, far too busy to have time to explore it at his leisure. Spock, thankfully, was seeing to all the practical needs of their passengers while Jim handled the official half of it; for the most part, this meant he and his First only saw each other for the next two days like ships passing in the night. McCoy made for a great distraction, as Jim had always known he would, and he'd never been happier for his friend's penchant for nagging and otherwise pointed sarcastic comments.

Although, after the tenth rendition of 'those pointy-eared hobgoblins are mucking up my sickbay', even he had to admit that it was getting repetitive.

It was morning, a day and a half following their transfer of the Vulcan colonists, before Jim had more than even a cursory moment to relax. He celebrated by spending the first hour of his bridge shift actually lounging in his command chair, doing as little as possible, instead of frantically attempting to scribble his signature to five different datapads at once, as he had been for the last thirty-six hours.

"Status, Mr. Sulu?"

"No change, Captain. All indicator lights are normal, all departments report optimal performance levels."

"Thank you." Usually an adrenaline junky of the highest order, Jim was more than happy to take a long breather and settle into a mission of relative peace and lack of paperwork from here on out. Life just didn't get better than that.

Looking at the rest of his bridge crew, Jim was reminded again of how lucky he was, in both his personal and professional circumstances. Captain of the Enterprise. Damn. He'd never have thought, as little as four years ago, that his life would take him places like this. As he watched Chekov man his station, Jim couldn't help but grin, silently entertained by his youngest officer's enthusiasm. He tracked the ensign with his eyes for a moment, remembering that at the age of seventeen he'd personally been in the process of completing his small stint in prison for two counts of grand larceny. Ah, the follies of youth.

And it occurred to him that McCoy might have something to say about that. _Reminder to self; don't tell Bones._

Distracted, Jim felt his concentration lapse. There wasn't anything important required of him at the moment, and he let himself drift in daydreams and possibilities. But as his unfocused eyes passed over his tactical officer, something very – odd – happened. A strange filament cast a shadow on the ensign, like an afterimage flickering in and out over his vision. He blinked rapidly to dispel it, but the fuzzy overlay didn't disperse; if anything, it worsened.

He sat very still, making no move to rub at his stinging eyes and breathing deeply to appear in control of himself. A captain who wasn't in control of himself wasn't fit for duty on the bridge of a constitution class starship. Spock had driven that point home with brute strength.

What was this? He sat tensely, only command training keeping him from panicking as the washed out double-images worsened. He was almost beginning to get motion sick looking out of his own eyes. He closed them.  
_  
It's not real. I haven't had enough sleep. Take a second to reorient and everything will revert to normal._

"Captain?"

He opened his eyes quickly at Spock's query, trying not to appear as though he'd been napping on the bridge, but also healthy enough not to give any indication of trouble. Relief rushed through him. The strange visual phenomenon was gone.

"Mr. Spock?"

"Sensors are detecting an asteroid field obstructing our flight path. Recommend we take a full sector scan and alter course to avoid it."

"Logical, as always, Spock," he murmured, in a faint imitation of his usual good humor. "Mr. Sulu, see to it. Mr. Chekov, assist Mr. Spock, if you would."

Two 'Aye, sir's' chorused, and he watched as the ensign stood from his console, hurrying to the upper deck with all the haste of a new cadet determined to impressed his superior officers. As he passed by the command chair, Jim smiled at him, a small smirk of encouragement, and found it returned with a shy, happy grin.

Strange. It was the damnedest thing, and surely only a bit of daydreaming, but for just an instant, he could have sworn that the face looking out at him from his tactical officers person, smiling so gamely, was someone quite different. Someone much more settled and comfortable, if no less enthusiastic. Someone much older.

But it was only for an instant.

Dinner that night was a boisterous affair. With a skeleton crew on the bridge, he had the maintenance workers prepare the food processors for a veritable feast of Human cuisine. He intended it mostly as a reward to his crew for a job well done, but also as an invitation to the various Vulcans aboard ship who might be tempted to mingle or otherwise interact with the officers of the Enterprise. Not many made public appearances – and Jim didn't press it, aware that though the Humans on board knew of the great tragedy that had struck their guests, none of them could really understand. He couldn't hold it against them that they preferred their solitude and their silence. He couldn't say he'd feel any differently if it were him in their shoes.

He tried not to feel disappointed that Sp- er, Solkar, well, (oh, the hell with it) that the older Spock hadn't made an appearance, but then, he supposed it wasn't the safest thing in the world, considering that his efficient Vulcan First was also in attendance at the dinner.

He wondered what would happen if those two came face to face, how the older man might attempt to hide his identity from his younger self. He smirked to think of the ensuing argument that might follow – _"You are mistaken, I assure you that I am not you, and fail to see the logic in accusing me of such a thing." "Your argument lacks the benefit of facts; the similarity in our facial features alone precludes-"_

He grinned. Yeah, that sounded about right.

He did notice T'Pela make a brief round of the affair, and several other Vulcans he'd made quick note of over the last few days, but T'Sai was not in evidence, nor Stolvik. He wondered about the child and hoped sympathetically that she was getting the help and comfort she deserved. Of course, hoping that a child receives emotional sustenance from a group of Vulcans seemed the height of idiocy, but then, they were her native species. What did he know about Vulcan grieving practices?

Lost in thought, he murmured a polite word of apology as he bumped into two Vulcans on his way to the refreshment table. Really, the whole ship was feeling rather crowded these days, in a not entirely unexpected fashion.

In fact, this entire gathering of foreign bodies reminded him of another occasion of overcrowding, and he grinned as McCoy's voice rattled through his brain, full of gruff irritation and annoyance.

_"…one-hundred and fourteen delegates aboard for two weeks, thirty-two of them ambassadors, half of them mad at the other half, and the whole lot touchier than a raw antimatter pile!"_

He grinned, remembering the occasion. Bones had been in his best dress uniform, pressed bright blue and hating it, grumbling the entire way –

The smile faded from his mouth, reality returning with a crash. That wasn't right. That wasn't even possible. McCoy and he were good friends, but up until this crew assignment they'd been cadets, completely unblooded, and assigned no uniforms aside from their neutral red.

He'd never seen McCoy in dress blues before.

Vertigo struck him, followed closely by a sense of dizzying disbelief. The decking under his feet felt unsteady, unreal even, and if the automatic door hadn't been quite so close, he might have fallen as all the strength in his legs abandoned him, leaving him to clutch at its dubious support while he regained his balance.

"Here now, what's this? Cap'n? Are ye' all right?"

"Scotty," he said, turning carefully so that he could retain his hold on the door and still shift to face his engineer. Dizziness threatened to jump him from behind and he had to take quick sips of air to get enough breath for a response. "Fancy meeting you here. I wasn't even sure you knew the Enterprise had rec. rooms, let alone where they were located. How did you manage to pull yourself away from your beloved warp nacelles?"

"As lovely as those little darlin's are, sadly they'll no' fill a man's stomach, no matter what other grand things they c'n do. Beggin' yer pardon, sir, but it looks t' me like you could do with a spot of food yerself."

"Actually Scotty," Jim forced himself to grin, "I think it might have been one spot too many for me tonight. Think I'll head back to my cabin and sleep it off."

"Aye." Scotty nodded sagely, like a man who'd had a bad spell or two often enough to know the warning signs. "Well, the night is young. Ye'll have t' join us later, assumin' you manage t' shake this wee spell."

"Don't forget to have one in my honor, Mr. Scott." Jim flashed a shadow of his usual grin at the engineer, turned smartly, and walked away. The vertigo was gone, swallowed up thankfully while the other man spoke, but the ghost of it lingered in his abdomen, like the aftertaste of a flu he'd never had, or the worst case of stomach-turning panic he'd ever experienced.

_Panic_, he thought. _Am I having panic attacks?_ It didn't seem likely. Hell, he'd faced down fantastically strong Romulans, outgunned and outmatched, and come out on top with nary a tremor, let alone a full-blown anxiety attack. That couldn't be it. This was no longer an isolated incident, but as before it had faded almost before it happened, leaving him confused but without any definite idea of what had truly occurred.

He thought about going to McCoy, but only for an instant. Bones was a good doctor, an excellent surgeon, but once he got his hooks into a patient, only a perfect bill of health would release them. And Jim could just imagine what the good doctor might have to say to his explanation of 'possibly pain, but more like dizziness, with some truly psychedelic visual effects, and, oh yeah, dreams that are too real to be believed. And no, they aren't anxiety attacks, and no, I'm not on any medications. Diagnosis?'

Right. So, McCoy was out. Probably it was nothing, anyway. The feeling had already disappeared. Maybe it was just the pangs of settling into his exhilarating, exciting new command. Considering the pressure he found himself under, he supposed anything was possible.

That night, there were no dreams for James Kirk. But the next night was an entirely different story.

It began aboard the Enterprise, as many of his dreams did, but it was both like and unlike any other he could remember having. For one thing, he knew he was dreaming.

There was deck plating hard under his feet. Name plates stamped on every door. A gleaming, familiar starship, an eager crew, a command chair that was he frequently sat in. Faces that he knew, hidden beneath faces that he didn't. Men and women that lay vibrant and alive in his mind, even as some second sense insisted to him that they were all long dead, their current youthful appearance an illusion. A doctor who watched over him, irascible, sarcastic and biting. A Vulcan who followed him, like a silent shadow, who knew him, but whom he didn't know.

And pain.

Images swept by him like the path of a kaleidoscope, too fast for him to catch, though many impressions remained. But pain eclipsed them all, pain like claws sunk deep into his body, tearing at him from the inside. He would have shouted if he could have opened his mouth to do so, but his feet striding along the corridor moved without his permission and his mouth remained firmly shut. Agony was his life, as steady in his lungs as the air he breathed, in his bones like the blood coursing through his veins; agony like the ugliness of failure, a barren life of loneliness, of being the last one left alive. And dying might feel like this, he thought, in a small space where thinking was possible even within the torment. Dying might be better than this.

Beneath the crushing wave of a painfully intense horror, consciousness struck him, an explosion of disorientation; a headache spearing through him like the worst hangover he could ever remember having. Especially since he hadn't had anything to drink the night before. His morning alarm sounded shrill and sharp in his ear, exacerbating the problem

"Computer!" He barked hoarsely. "Alarm off!" And the noise faded quickly into silence.

Jim rolled over to the side and struggled not to expel what little there was in his stomach. This was not him finding his space legs; this was not a poor reaction to food; this was not a delayed reaction to stress. That dream had somehow, in some inexplicable way, taken elements from his everyday life and – _twisted_ them, until they were completely unrecognizable, something so very close to real and yet – _unreal_. Vivid. Sharp. Terrifying.

He felt like he had two feet placed firmly in two different worlds – and they were tearing him in pieces.

He thumped off the bed, barely feeling the floor as it rushed up to meet him, and scrabbled for his communicator.

"Kirk to McCoy."

"McCoy here. What's up Jim?"

"Are you alone?"

McCoy grunted, sounding cranky and unamused. "Hell of a thing to ask a man just rolling out of bed, oh fearless captain."

"Bones."

Something in his tone must have given him away as, after a short silence, McCoy rumbled back a worried, "Jim?"

"I need you. My quarters. Come alone. Bring your tricorder."

"On my way. McCoy out."

He flipped the communicator closed, considered leaving it at that, but tremors shook through him like a palsy, and even with McCoy's inventive and miraculous potions, he couldn't see himself making it to the bridge. Not in this kind of condition.

"Kirk to Communications."

"Communications. Uhura here." The lovely face of his xenolinguistics officer flashed into his mind, soulful eyes and unattractive sneer. The sound of her voice raised in song, the ringing notes of a harp carrying it. The lilt of her humming at her station, laughing, his title in her voice, wrapped in concern – _"Captain!"_ – but reality returned, drawn deep like a blade, and he had to stifle a sharp exhalation of breath.

Uhura wouldn't even tell him her first name, let alone be caught dead in his company at the moment. Respect they might have, but actual friendship would be a while coming. She'd certainly had no chances yet to be concerned for him, even if she could be moved to the feeling. And he had never once heard her sing.

"Captain?" Uhura's voice was steady, but curious. She was well used to picking out the slightest variations in what to others could merely be termed noise; Jim had no doubt that while his quickly stifled grunt would have been undetectable to most, it rang like a gong for her sensitive ears. As sensitive as her Vulcan lover. Jim spared a moment to admire the thought of the two of them together, the fantasy probably as close as he'd ever get to the reality now. He viciously struck down a faint feeling of envy, what another man might even call jealousy. Jim Kirk did not do jealousy.

"Uhura. Is Spock on duty yet?" If his alarm had just gone off that meant shift changeover wouldn't occur for another thirty minutes, but if there was one thing he'd learned he could bank on, it was his First's penchant for overworking himself.

"Here, Captain." Spock's even, toneless reply filtered over the communicator, and Jim closed his eyes in relief. The Vulcan's voice washed over him like a balm, quieting down the throbbing behind his eyes, and the unexpected surcease from pain made him slightly lightheaded, almost giddy. Momentarily stunned by his instinctive, unanticipated reaction, he took a long second to gather his voice.

"Spock, something's come up. The bridge is yours today."

There was a moment of silence. "Sir?"

"You're in command, Mr. Spock. Try not to do anything with her that I wouldn't."

_Oops_, he thought, almost giggling in the ensuing silence. _ That came out wrong. I meant the ship, not Uhura, right?_

Another few beats of silence. "I will, of course, endeavor to keep the Enterprise operating at peak efficiency, if with a somewhat more sedate command style than you might prefer. Captain, if there is a prob-"

"Thank you, Mr. Spock," Jim interrupted as someone signaled at his door for entrance. "That'll be all for now. Kirk out."

He hastily clicked his communicator shut, just as the door slid open, the lock having been deactivated by one of the few people aboard whose voice code could override the captain's. McCoy wasted no time on pleasantries, stalking into the room with heavy, determined footfalls.

"All right Jim, this had better be important. What's –" He stumbled to a halt, taking in the disaster of his captain's bed, the man himself sprawled awkwardly on the floor. With wide, amazed eyes, he moved quickly, dropping down to Jim's side where he lay, sweaty and pale.

"My God, Jim, what happened? Are you all right?"

"I'm all right Bones. Now. I'm all right now."

McCoy had already whipped out his tricorder and was busy taking scans, frowning at the data on his screen. "What the devil is that supposed to mean? Your readings are all over the chart. Jim, tell me you haven't been drinking this close to shift changeover –"

"No!" Jim was annoyed; he was well aware of his own shortcomings and this, at least, wasn't usually one of them. "No. Of course I haven't. Look, I'm having – there's. Okay. There've been a couple times in the last few weeks where I've felt – off. Momentarily. Times when I've had especially vivid dreams about things that seemed impossible. Or times I seemed to – lose my balance, or feel suddenly out of place, or as though I knew, or thought I knew, something, when I shouldn't –"

"Scotty mentioned you looked under the weather at dinner last night. This have anything to do with that?"

"Yeah," he grunted as McCoy prodded him with another scanner. Interesting that the doctor should mention the only odd episode in which he'd featured. "That was one of them."

"Dammit Jim, I'm a doctor, not a psychic. I can't know something's wrong if you don't tell me. Why didn't you-"

"Yeah, yeah! I screwed up, all right? I should have come to you from the first, but it didn't seem that serious at the time. Only, there've been other times since then. And each time it seems to get worse, more frequent, so just – look me over and tell me what kind of food not to eat in the future, okay?"

"Jim," McCoy said, frowning down at his tricorder. "I don't think this is a case of food poisoning or allergic reaction."

Okay, so he hadn't either, but hearing it like a death knell from his chief medical officer made this entire unknown situation too real. If nothing else, it pounded home that Bones couldn't give him reassurances right off the bat; no pat explanations, no painful quick-acting shots to cure this. There was something really wrong with him.

"What do you think it is then?"

"I don't know yet, Jim. I'm going to have to take you to sickbay."

He'd been afraid of that. "C'mon Bones, I'm not exactly dressed to impress today."

"Only male nurses on today, Jim boy, so don't worry yourself over it." He frowned at his friend, wondering if McCoy were really so oblivious that he'd somehow managed to miss the two TA's Jim had bedded in the whirlwind of his Academy training; both of them of a distinctly masculine variety. Not to mention the third-year cadet just before the day of his second Kobayashi Maru.

No, the man couldn't have failed to notice, but Jim wouldn't put it past him to pretend that he had. The better to jump Jim with that information when it would serve him best to knock his captain for a loop. Good old Bones, he thought. If the man weren't terminally straight we'd have gotten it on years ago.

He supposed that their friendship could easily be explained as the one relationship in his life that he hadn't managed to screw up by sleeping with the man.

"Sickbay seems a bit extreme Bones; just shoot me up with one of your noxious hypos and let me enjoy my sick day, would you?"

"Jim, I don't think you understand. I haven't seen readings like this since my dissertation on the development of the Human nervous system compared to the development of-"

"Bones!"

"What?" The doctor snapped, busy tapping instructions into his tricorder.

"Get to the point."

"The point is that you're coming with me, and if you don't get some clothes on it'll be more than just your flavor of the week that gets an eyeful."

Jim rolled his eyes, heaved a longsuffering sigh and got dressed. There was just no reasoning with McCoy when he got like this.

Sickbay was quiet, and thankfully empty, only a single nurse recalibrating the medical sensors; a female nurse, contrary to McCoy's insistence. Jim turned a hard glare on the other man.

"Please; like you'd have come if you thought there was some woman to impress with your pathetic attempts at charm."

"Just run your damn tests, will you?"

McCoy did, for once without his usual conversational repartee, and that worried Jim more than anything. In three years of Starfleet training, he couldn't remember the last time he'd worried his friend into withholding his sarcastic tongue. Not that he didn't usually worry him to the point of insanity, but it was the kind of worry that an owner might give to a sick dog, or a parent to their erring child. Sharp, to the point, and invariably having no impact whatsoever.

He gave it a good try, but Jim had always known he was never made for patience, and after thirty minutes of silent, concentrated testing, he lost his temper.

"Damn it Bones! If you stick me with that thing one more time I'm going to pick up this biomonitor and hit you with it! If you don't have some idea of what's wrong with me by now then obviously there can't be _anything _wrong with me!"

He gripped the aforementioned monitor threateningly, but for once his antics garnered no reaction. No smile and certainly no put-upon sigh or woebegone lecture about how many other thousands of things McCoy could be doing if not for James-bane-of-his-existence-Kirk.

"Jim," he began.

"No," Jim interrupted. "I know that look. Whatever it is you're contemplating – however long you're thinking of trying to confine me to sickbay while you work your miracle-medical-magic, count me out. Believe me, thirty minutes in this room of horrors is more than enough punishment to teach me for whatever crimes I might have committed. Maybe even some I haven't committed yet."

"Jim, this is serious."

"Bones," he rolled his eyes upward, as though petitioning for divine assistance. "You always say that, _Jim, this is serious_ –"

"Jim, will you just – _shut up_ a second, would you?"

Hearing his tone, truly angry rather than merely exasperated, Jim shut up.

"Physically I don't like your readings, but they're within Human parameters. Your neurological scans are the ones that worry me. Each of these tests has a margin of error, but you're well outside the established norm on at least three of them – and that's not counting the ones I haven't had time to run yet with you threatening to destroy my sickbay. Jim, how long have you been feeling like this?"

The captain wracked his brain, trying to process everything he'd just been told. "I don't know. I – guess since about the time I assumed command of the Enterprise."

"Before or after we dealt with that Romulan nut job?"

Jim hesitated, thinking. It was possible some of this had cropped up before he'd been given official captaincy of the Enterprise, but he couldn't say either way with one hundred percent certainty. Things had been so chaotic then; he barely remembered the series of events, let alone how he'd felt while living them.

"After," he said, but even he could hear the doubt in his voice.

McCoy eyed him. "Did you experience anything recently that could account for this? Any contact with anything, aside from the obvious, that might have pushed your stress levels to a breaking point, any particularly foreign substances you've ingested that might not react well in a human body? Think."

"No. No, nothing like that. It's been food right out of our own processors, and you know me Bones; stress is what I live for."

"I've patched you up enough times to know it's the adrenaline, not the stress, that you crave." The scowl turned in his direction made Jim grin, even in the face of the unknown quandary facing him. "Well, what about any alien contact. Have you had any late nights with anyone of another species recently, or contact with someone outside what you might call your normal experience? I realize your list will be about five times longer than the average crewman, but do try and think about it."

"No," Jim growled, wondering if Bones had any spare hypos he could retaliate with. "We've only been out of spacedock barely more than two weeks Bones, and before that was Nero and his unholy quest for vengeance, when have I had time to –"

No, there hadn't been any late nights with anyone of alien origin; no late nights at all, in fact, with anyone of any origin. But there had been one fortuitous, freezing afternoon, in the midst of chaos, when he'd encountered someone, certainly not his average one-night-stand, but someone who had touched him in a way – that no one else ever had.

And it could certainly explain the aberrant neurological readings. In fact, it might actually account for any and all aberrant readings, for all he knew. Contact with telepathy, a species-specific trait lacking in Humans, was notoriously unpredictable, and more than that, tended to produce a variety of unusual reactions.

He was going to kill Spock. Both Spocks. But especially that Spock first.

"Jim? Jim, you have that look. What are you thinking? What happened that you think could explain this?"

"Explain what?" Oh, Christ, telepathic contact with a time traveling carbon-copy of his Vulcan First, and here McCoy stood, sensors at the ready, on the verge of blowing the whole thing wide open. Why hadn't Spock warned him that there could be consequences to their attempt at expedient information exchange? Hell, why hadn't he warned himself? Most relatively sane human beings would balk at sharing mental headspace with a man they'd only met for five minutes (although Spock had saved his life, so maybe his stupidity could be justified – a little), but not James T. Kirk. He'd always known his leap-without-looking attitude was going to come back to bite him, he'd just thought it'd be with literal teeth, not mental ones.

If McCoy got even the slightest inkling of this, any of this, he was going to be well and truly screwed.

"Bones, I – there is something, something just came to mind, but I can't tell you about it just yet, I have to –"

"Can't tell me about it?" McCoy sputtered, mouth agape. "Jim, I'm chief of medicine on this ship! You'll damn well tell me what it is or I'll have you strapped down to that biobed so fast your head will spin!"

Oh, for love of – this was going to get ugly quickly if he didn't nip it in the bud.

"Bones, I will, I will, just – give me twenty-four hours to confirm my hypothesis, okay? Just twenty-four hours, and I'll tell you everything I know." _Everything I'm able to tell you, for all our sakes, but especially for the sake of my poor ringing ears if you got wind of the whole thing and the fact that I haven't already informed you._

"Twenty-four hours, Bones. A day. Give me a day."

McCoy stared at him, vacillating between being a friend and his duties as chief medical officer. "I don't like this. These readings are really dangerous Jim. You could be –"

"Doctor McCoy, as captain of this ship, I hear what you're saying and I do appreciate it. But I need one day from you, and then I promise – I'll fill you in."

McCoy was silent for so long that Jim wondered if he might have pushed his hand too far. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned the captain bit. Maybe it had reminded McCoy that as senior medical officer he had the right to demand anything pertaining to health, from anyone on this ship. Up to and including his commanding officer.

"All right Jim," his friend said at last, and the sudden relief that flooded him was like the sweetest drug available in sickbay. "One day. No more than that."

"No more," he agreed, then turned and left.

He had a certain aging Vulcan to strangle.

End Chapter Two.

A/N: I don't know if I like this chapter - not much happens in it except plot advancement! Which is a good thing, I guess but... ah! To make up for it, I'll post the next one early, either Sunday morning or evening. It gets _really _interesting from here. Hope you liked it anyway! And thank you to everyone who reviewed!


	3. Chapter 3

**Note**: A couple people mentioned that Jim's promiscuity was a little exaggerated last chapter, and looking back on it, I agree! So I've changed it a bit. Thank you to everyone for your encouragement and your constructive criticism, it gives me a chance to reflect on my own writing and weigh what seems worth keeping against what detracts from the story. Also, I love to know that people are reading and (hopefully) enjoying! Reviews are food for the Gods. =D Moar plz?

~*~

Breaking Points

Chapter Three

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Confrontations and unexpected meetings.

~*~

It took some doing to sneak down to the passenger quarters relatively undetected. This was one meeting for which he wanted no witnesses. Especially if it resulted, as he thought it might, in the death of a certain infuriating Vulcan ambassador. He tried not to feel like an intruder with a bulls-eye painted on his back as he lurked through the corridors of his own ship like a thief in the night.

When he finally arrived at Spock-Solkar-Spock-_whatever's_ quarters, he reached out angrily to stab the door buzzer, then paused as something occurred to him. Redirecting his hand, he tapped the button above the ringer, hooking in to the computer terminal.

"Computer, location of ship's passenger T'Sai."

"Passenger T'Sai is located on deck eleven, cargo bay four."

He had a momentary thought about why a child would be in one of the cargo bays but quickly shrugged it off. There were maintenance and engineering crew all through there. If she got into something she wasn't supposed to, they'd handle it. He had more important fish to fry.

He jabbed the door buzzer firmly, but couldn't help jumping when it swung open almost immediately.

He had to give it to the old guy; the man really knew how to time his exits. Entrances.

They stared at each other over the threshold of the doorway, and Jim wondered if the other man had known he'd come here, because there was no sign of surprise in that face, not even a raised eyebrow.

Right, so that's how he wanted to play it, did he? Thought Jim didn't know the crap he'd pulled with that mind – thing, did he?

He opened his mouth to say something deceptively polite (the better to lure him into a false sense of security with) – how's the weather look on your new colony, what rock did you find your new name hidden under, how can you expect Spock not to figure who you are if you're on the same blasted ship he is – but what actually came out was, "Take it back."

"I beg your pardon?" Gray-white eyebrows swept upward in a classically impassive Vulcan look of surprise.

"Whatever you did, whatever you scrambled in my brain, or what – whatever you left behind, take it back. I don't want it."

"I'm not certain I understand, Jim –"

"Just take it back!"

"I cannot take back anything if I remain ignorant as to what it is you're referring."

Jim glared at him, sorely tempted to punch him in his irritating, puzzled, one-hundred-and-thirty-plus-years-old nose. "You did something to me on Delta Vega. That mind thing, when you touched my face, you – "

The heavy thud of a booted foot mis-stepping and coming down hard on the carpeted floor cut him off in mid-tirade. They both turned like puppets, to regard the openly curious, questioning countenance of his first officer, frozen in the act of striding toward them. Jim had a fleeting thought that he'd entered some sort of twilight zone where everything he did resulted in things spiraling even further into perilous disaster (wait, no, that was his _regular _life). Then he slipped seamlessly and automatically into recovery mode, straightened up decisively, and opened his mouth with absolutely no idea of what he was going to say.

"I mean – that's, that can't have been you on Delta Vega, can it? Wow, that's weird. So anyway, it looks like I've taken up enough of your time, Solkar, I'll just catch up with you another time about the – about your views on Vulcans' new colony – which, by the way, I hear is going just great –"

"Jim," the Ambassador interrupted, and Jim shut up before his mouth tripped over itself. "It is all right. My younger self is – quite aware of who I am."

Jim gaped at him, absolutely flummoxed. What?! "What?"

"I took advantage of the opportunity to speak to him just before the Enterprise left Earth some weeks ago. It was – an interesting conversation."

"But – you –"

"I implied to you that there would be some form of temporal catastrophe if you should mention my existence to my counterpart – yes."

"_Implied?_ I seem to remember –"

"I am aware of your efforts to conceal the nature of your return to the Enterprise, and am grateful for your dedication to your word. But it will no longer be necessary."

"Now wait just a damn minute –"

"Perhaps this is a conversation better had in private," the older man suggested, gesturing inward with his arm, a sweeping move that gathered up both the sputtering Kirk and the frozen Spock, watching the by-play in fascination.

Sullen, Jim stomped into the modest quarters, followed closely by his first officer, and scrambled to marshal his arguments in the small ensuing silence.

"What," he gritted snidely as the outer door shut behind the three of them (two of them? one of him, two of them? God, this was awkward), "was the point in getting me to keep my mouth shut when you fully intended to reveal yourself anyway? Do you have any idea what I had to do to convince Spock – not you, the other one – the younger one – this Spock, first officer Spock –"

He gesticulated wildly, stabbing his finger toward the younger Vulcan emphatically. "_Spock!_ What it took for me to convince _him _I knew what the hell I was talking about?"

"I have some idea," the Ambassador said dryly, observing his antics with what looked suspiciously like amusement. "And interestingly enough, my younger self posed a similar question to me upon our first meeting. And I will tell you what I told him then: the mission could only have been completed by the two of you finding a way to work together, in the same manner I once worked with my captain. And I have always had great faith in your – persuasive abilities, James Kirk." Were those solemn eyes _twinkling _at him?

Incensed, he glared at them, certain that both Spocks could be held accountable for this. Somehow. "Well, that's just great. Who the hell else knows now? The entire Enterprise bridge crew? Starfleet?"

"No. We three in this room are the only other beings currently living in this universe to know the truth of my existence."

Well, that made him feel a little bit better, at least. A very little. "Great. Fine. All right then, since we're all in the know, the hell with the rest of that conversation, and back to my original concerns. Take it back."

"Jim, if you would explain to me what it is you wish me to take back, I shall do so – assuming it is possible."

Casting a wary glance at his science officer, whose absolute silence was beginning to make him nervous, he hesitated, wondering by that frozen visage if he was about to commit some political faux pas by even talking about this. What the hell did he know about the telepathic customs of Vulcans? Maybe the entire thing was like some species-wide cultural taboo. "On that planet, when you were – explaining to me who Nero was, who you were, and why you were here. You touched my face, did a mind – thing, meld. Whatever. It's – whatever you did, I need you to take it back. I can't keep tripping myself up every time one of your memories jumps up and bites me."

"What?" Both Spock's spoke loudly, identical expressions of alarm on their faces. Jim fought down the insane desire to laugh.

"I don't know the first thing about Vulcan mind whammies, but I know when things are real and when they aren't. Believe me, I've gotten drunk enough times to tell the difference. And whatever you left behind in my head is screwing up my sense of reality so badly that I can't trust myself to talk to anyone without checking first that they're the person I think they are. Look, I'm not angry – okay, no, I'm pissed, but before we get into that maybe you could just, oh, I don't know, fix this before it drives me up the damn wall?"

The Ambassador's face bore a very peculiar expression of fascination and doubt. "Do you mean to say that you're experiencing episodes of memory overlay? Situations where your perceptions of reality seem to differ from the established facts?"

"Yes! _Yes_. It's like I keep getting lost in a dream – like the weirdest sense of déjà vu you can imagine. It's driving me crazy – so do me a favor and make it go away."

"I –"

"Captain," the younger Spock interrupted, and they both turned to look at him, having conveniently forgotten he was there. "I am uncertain as to the reasons behind your delusional episodes, but they cannot be the residual effects of touching minds with a Vulcan. The mind meld simply does not work in the way you are implying."

"I don't care if you don't think it works the way it's working Spock – because it is! You shouldn't even be part of this conversation, you're not the one who reached into my brain and fried it –"

"Jim." And maybe he was experiencing more of those altered perceptions of reality, because being caught in a debate on the merits of inter-species telepathic contact with two versions of the same person had to be the most bizarre situation he'd found himself in to date. And considering Nero and the events leading to his captaincy, he had a lot to pull from. He turned to regard the older Spock.

"Ignore him, all right?" He said, tossing a thumb in his First's general direction. "Believe me when I tell you that no matter how far-out this sounds, that is _exactly _how this meld thing is working."

"Jim," the elder said, spreading his hands in a curiously Human gesture of helplessness. "We touched only briefly to transfer an enormous amount of data in a timely fashion. There should have been few, if any, residual effects –"

"Then tell me how I know things about people that I shouldn't know," Jim demanded, growing angry. "Tell me why sometimes when I look at my crew I don't see their faces as they are now but how they'll look years, decades, from now. How I know that Chekov has a ridiculous love affair with claiming all things Russian, or that Sulu will be a captain of his own someday. Tell my why I'm absolutely certain Uhura has a great singing voice – even though I've never heard her sing! Or how I know Scotty either has, or is in the process of collecting, an enormous stash of illegal hooch that I'm going to help him horde away and that we'll laugh about for years to come."

"Jim –"

"Or how –" his voice petered out momentarily and he had to take a shaky breath to continue, "how when I went to message my brother Sam the news about my promotion, all I could think about, all I could see, was him lying dead on the ground, with his wife Aurelan next to him. And how sometimes when I look at you, either of you, and think about what you said, about friendship, I feel like my heart is about to pound its way out of my chest, like every cell in my body is burning from the inside out, and I think – no, I know – that I'm dying, or that I'm dead, or that I know what it is to die –"

Hands on his face, gentle hands, and wizened eyes staring into his, and a sudden calm, projected overtop of his growing panic, a panic he hadn't even allowed himself to look at until just now, confronted as he was with the depth of the crisis plaguing him. This was a problem he didn't know how to deal with, which couldn't be controlled with Starship weaponry, diplomacy, or his own indomitable will. He didn't want to feel as though he was dying every time he looked at Spock, either Spock, in an unguarded moment. He didn't want to feel like old age was waiting for him around every corner. He still had his life to live, his own life that he wanted untouched by these ghosts from a future that would never be his. The Ambassador had to take it back; make it stop.

"I thought I was imagining things," Jim rasped out, needing to impart some sort of understanding, even though his own clarity of thought escaped him. "These past weeks – I couldn't tell Bones. What could I say? That I was seeing things, hearing voices? They've taken away Command from people for less. I thought it was the result of some – I don't know, lack of sleep, excess of drink, bad trip – whatever. It wouldn't be the first time. I thought of a thousand things to explain it, each one more stupid than the last. But it's not any of those things, is it? It's real. This is all – very real."

"Yes," the other murmured to him, nothing but compassion in his eyes, his voice. "These things that you have seen, the dreams that come to you – they are real."

"I can't live like this," Jim said thinly, pressing his eyes tightly closed. "This isn't my life. Take it back."

"Yes," the elder said to him, fingers lying in a comforting, cradling path along both sides of his face, and Jim had to close his eyes on the relief that leapt into him, lest he have an unintended emotional breakdown in front of his First, still frozen and silent somewhere off to the side. That would have been too embarrassing for words. "Relax Jim. Be easy. Be calm. I will take it back."

It was an impossible feeling to describe for a Human, for whom mental contact was as foreign as green blood and pointed ears. At first Jim was alone in his head, only his own thoughts to guide him, and then there was another, flowing toward him and around him, the same other that had touched him so easily on that planet of ice. And Jim was initially wary, and then grateful, very grateful for this one moment in time when he could let go of this seemingly impossible dilemma and allow someone else to worry about it.

That feeling wasn't him, he thought absently in the tempest of activity crowding his mind; that sudden bliss at handing over control, abdicating responsibility, that wasn't him. It was an aberration, brought on by the surrealism of this experience, of having hidden his own worries even from himself these past weeks. He thrived on the challenge of living down to other people's expectations; he would never truly want to be without control of his own life. So it was especially strange to feel just slightly – liberated – at the notion that for a few timeless moments in the meld (oh, he thought, that _is _what it's called), he could stop fighting, stop pushing. Stop determinedly not-caring about admonitions from tired mothers, or disappointment from long-dead fathers. Stop blocking all those voices in his head that assured him he shouldn't bother trying, that he wasn't fast enough, or good enough –

_Easy_, the presence whispered to him, like liquid honey dipped in heat, sweet and untroubled and pure. _ Easy Jim, old friend; dear one. You have always been good enough. More than good enough. And your father would be proud of you._

If he'd been in his physical body, Jim would have pulled back immediately; thrown up every defensive shield he had, hid behind sarcasm, biting wit, disdain and anger. But there was nowhere to hide in the meld, and no will to try and find such a place. There could be no falsehoods here. Whoever else he might doubt, whoever might flatter his ego without meaning the words, Spock meant them – the Spock who'd known him in another life, who knew him now so intimately in this life, and believed, in a way that was impossible to fake, that he was worth something. Worth – everything.

If it was possible to cringe on the inside, where no one but wandering telepaths could see it, Jim tried not to do that. He wasn't that person. He didn't crave the approval of others; he didn't need to be patted on the back for a job well done. He was his own person, and he needed no one. And that was the way he liked it.

_Such pain, my T'hy'la. Such doubt in yourself. I can only hope that one day, soon, my stubborn counterpart sees that which burns inside you, what I saw in my own beloved captain. Be still now, and allow me to undo what I have done._

The meld stretched endlessly, relative time falling away until Jim had no idea of how long he basked in the presence of such unconditional acceptance as he'd never known before, a brilliant radiance of affection and, yes, love, that he never would have suspected lay beneath any Vulcan exterior.

Whatever else might come after, the future he'd never have, or the one stretched out before him, he had this moment to carry him through it, this instant in time where he knew, above all else, that he was cherished.

And the best part was that, being as it was conducted entirely in the privacy of their two minds, he need not ever admit to having it; thus, his image as the hard-ass, loose-lipped Starfleet Captain was completely safe. Hallelujah.

Watching that powerful mind at work was like seeing events happen from beneath the thin surface of a lake. Everything seemed very muffled as he observed the determined presence run mental fingers through the points in their memories that lay connected, separating them with care, as an experienced jeweler might separate shards of crystal into unique piles of gemstones. The process seemed long, but it could have been anywhere from seconds to hours. It had only taken them a few minutes last time to convey all the information that needed to be told, with an additional side dish of unexpected transference. Now Jim watched as, in reverse, information that shouldn't be his was removed, and he had a fleeting thought that he hoped this Spock knew what he was doing, or his already alcohol-patchy memory was going to be seriously screwed up.

_It is not as difficult as it might seem, Jim,_ the thought floated to him from one part of that vast consciousness, while most of the rest of it continued with its work. _There is a certain texture, you might call it a flavor, to the thoughts and feelings of one mind when compared to another. The process of removing my – contamination – from your memories is relatively simple. I need only scan it for evidence of my own thought patterns, which are quite familiar to me, and then separate them from your own._

That was easy? Jim considered that. Hell, if this was easy, he wondered what a Vulcan with this much experience and discipline under his belt might consider hard.

The equivalent of mental laughter buoyed him up, and it was such a strangely compelling and fascinating sensation that he couldn't help but be drawn to it, watching the proceedings with greater interest.

When at last it seemed done, he felt the older man taking one last look, like someone sweeping their hand over a blanket to smooth out all visible wrinkles, and then he began to withdraw. Jim surprised himself by stumbling – in his completely inept, Human way – after him, some part of him distantly not wanting this all-encompassing contact to end.

The presence paused in silent contemplation, then touched him, and there was the sensation that time was almost physical. No, it was physical – it was the feeling of aged hands on his face, of his own eyes opening, regarding the other, the last of their connection fading away – and stretching between the two of them was a very pivotal and revealing moment of a horribly keen sense of loss.

Jim had never before had a chance to appreciate how terribly lonely it could be inside his own head.

"Captain? Captain, are you all right?"

The wrinkled hands fell away, moist with the sweat that beaded Jim's brow. He struggled not to reach up and wipe the stickiness away. Somehow in the face of this unimagined ache of solitude it seemed a terrible vulnerability to show even one more sign of weakness.

He turned to his First, who had asked the question and was even now watching them intently. His hands were raised as though he wasn't sure whether it would be wiser to interfere or to let events run their course.

"Fine, Mr. Spock," Jim said wearily, and forced himself not to look at the older counterpart, just beginning to step back into his own composure. "I'm fine."

"Fine is, by its very definition, an inexact and unacceptable descriptor, Captain."

Jim rolled his eyes, wondering if Spock had done that on purpose, because the irritation centered him where uselessly kind and pedantic words wouldn't have. "All right Spock, I'm great, I'm grand, I'm _just dandy_. Does that satisfy your need for verbal correctness?"

"Somewhat, sir. May I ask what happened?"

That was a good question; that was a 'just dandy' question. Jim turned to the older Spock, letting his inquiring expression speak for him.

The other smiled at them both, a small smile to be sure, but nonetheless startling. "It appears that I made an error in my original estimation about the level of information I transferred to you during our last meld. In my haste, it seems I accidentally left behind – traces… perhaps it would be more accurate to say, shadows, of memory that did not belong to you, Jim, but rather, to another man I once knew who bore your name." They watched as he paused a moment, closing his eyes in contemplation.

"I have never before heard of an instance quite like this. Transferring memories from the mind of one man into the mind of the same man – although years younger – has never been tried, to my knowledge. Due to impossibility, of course. I have no doubt the experience was quite disconcerting for you – I imagine it could be likened to feeling as though your sense of self was being subsumed in another."

Jim frowned. "But – I thought the memories I was seeing came from your mind."

"To some extent they did, Jim, but not in the way you believe. The problem seems to stem primarily from the fact that in melding us, I appear to have inadvertently given you access to memories from – you. Rather, your other self."

"You melded with my – er – counterpart, in your timeline?" Jim demanded, not at all sure what feelings that thought was spawning, but certain that he didn't like any of them. Surely that wasn't envy eating away at him?

"Of course," the elder said, looking contemplative and, in a word, wistful. "Many times. Often in the line of duty, but not always. We shared a vivid connection, which resulted in my carrying the memories that have caused you such trouble. We were – very close."

"I can see that," Jim muttered, thinking that for him to rely on another man enough to entrust them with his memories would take a very great deal of 'closeness'.

"I cannot," his First interrupted, and if Jim didn't know better he'd say that the man looked on the verge of – anger. A very powerful anger, from the looks of it. "It is highly uncommon for Vulcans to meld with others outside of dire emergencies or familial relation. What you are suggesting is in direct violation of the Vulcan tenants of privacy regarding telepathic contact with psi-null species –"

"That would be true," his other self agreed, "But as I said, James Kirk and I were very close. If it is more acceptable to you to think of it in that fashion, you may consider that he and I were the equivalent – with all that the definition and distinction entails – of family."

His First was struck speechless; even his mouth gaped open just slightly, and Jim had to stifle the urge to laugh. He imagined that insulting the man now might never be forgiven, considering the very personal nature of the conversation taking place here. Spock had no one to blame but himself for his astonishment – if he hadn't been eavesdropping around the corner he'd never have even heard them talking –

That brought Jim up short. "What are you doing here, anyway?" He demanded, eyeing his First in irritation. "What were you doing in that corridor? I specifically left you in command of the bridge today."

The younger man turned to him, looking the height of Vulcan irritation. "I was – concerned at your abrupt transfer of command this morning, Captain. I contacted Dr. McCoy to ascertain whether he had been given any information on your absence, and he was singularly uninformative on the matter. I inquired with the computer as to your location, and ascertained from the response that you were intending to see to a matter pertaining to one of our guests. Since you have appointed me responsible for relations with the current contingent of passengers, I thought it only fitting that I should be made aware of any difficulty involving them. I see now that my assumption was correct."

"Oh?" Jim said dryly, wishing he could imitate that eyebrow maneuver to better mock the seriousness of his First's facial expression. "Expecting to find this, were you? Vulcan mind melds and all?"

"I admit that that has caught me somewhat off guard," Spock said stiffly, and turned to regard his older self with an implacable expression. "Please explain how and why you deemed it necessary to initiate such a – foreign – experience with my captain, which has so obviously resulted in danger to him. I assume that this took place before his rank was made official."

"Indeed," the Ambassador said, watching the by-play between them with acute interest. Jim told himself that squirming beneath his gaze was juvenile, and to stop it at once. "I had been, at the time, a stranded inhabitant on Delta Vega when your captain, in a similar circumstance, was driven into my cave by a wild animal that would likely have devoured him if not for my interference. Not, I am forced to point out, one of your more logical decisions, Spock."

The younger man, looking chastened, lowered his eyes in deference. "At the time, it seemed the only acceptable alternative. The ship was at high alert, and Mr. Kirk was on the verge of mutiny. I had thought to put the safety of the crew, and their united efforts, before the safety of an individual."

"Then I suppose we must all be thankful that your reasoning resulted in the serendipitous meeting between Jim and myself that has since led us here. Doubtless, it would have been quite an ignoble end for our friend if that creature had managed to catch him for the dinner it so obviously desired. Nevertheless, in answer to your question, after ascertaining the identity of the individual I had saved, it became apparent to me that something was very wrong with the timeline I currently found myself in, and the most expedient method of communication that lay between us was, of course, the meld. Time was of the essence. It seemed prudent at that moment. But I see now that in my haste I have placed the safety of your captain in jeopardy. For that, James Kirk, I offer my most sincere apologies."

Startled to be addressed in the ongoing conversation between these two men (and to be honest, he'd been a bit distracted comparing the two of them as they spoke; he was almost disturbed by the similarity of their speech patterns), Jim looked at the older Vulcan, askance. He found that, inexplicably, the anger that had driven him here so forcefully was – not gone, but severely diminished. "Oh. Well, I get the feeling jeopardy is going to be a fairly familiar state for me by the time my command of the Enterprise is over. Don't worry about it."

The older man inclined his head at this easy forgiveness, and Jim locked eyes with the younger one, noting the two eyebrows raised in a show of surprise. "Fascinating," his First said, looking again to his other self. "His acceptance of both your explanation and of the meld seems atypical of normal Human behavior. Can you explain?"

The Ambassador considered them both. "No, Spock, I am afraid any explanation I could give you would be too flawed for accurate comparison. I have never understood certain aspects of the unique personality of James Kirk, certainly not well enough to describe its many nuances to another; not even to my younger self. That will simply be something you will have to discover on your own, in time."

The two Starfleet officers eyed each other, both in dubious contemplation, and each could see similar thoughts running through the other. Discover personality quirks between them? Possible. But assuming things didn't change – unlikely.

"In any case, I have removed the remaining fragments of memory from your mind, Captain Kirk, and you are again yourself, free of outside influence. It seems that my presence aboard ship for the last few days has been aggravating the condition; if you were more aware of it since my arrival, that likely accounts for it. I hope you do not let this experience cloud your expectation of future communications in this fashion. It was my own unique form of – clumsiness – which led to your unfortunate discomfort."

"Like I said, don't worry about it. The need was pressing, and –" he hesitated, wondering if he should perhaps keep the next bit to himself or maybe just share it at another time when his First wasn't listening to his every word, but oh, the hell with it, "I found the experience – fascinating, to coin a phrase."

"Indeed." The Ambassador inclined his head, but he wasn't looking at Jim, and the captain glanced over to see his science officer regarding him with a look that, on any other, might be termed astonishment. "In that case Captain, I will bid you good morning, as it is still quite early, and invite you to join me tomorrow night for dinner. I find that, seeing as circumstances appear to be conspiring to throw us together, we may as well make the best of the situation. And… I wish to be certain that when it comes to the end of this short voyage I will retain, to borrow a Human phrase, 'no regrets' about my actions for the duration of it." He turned to Spock. "You are welcome to join us, my younger self, though you may find the experience somewhat – disorienting."

"No," Spock said, blinking solemnly. "No, but thank you. I must decline."

"Very well. Tomorrow, Jim?"

"Tomorrow," Jim agreed, wondering what he was getting himself into, and he and his First let themselves out, both of them staring at the elder's door as it shut quietly in their faces, finding themselves alone in the corridor beyond.

Oh, Jim thought, realizing that this now left him and his First _alone together in the corridor. _ Oh, damn.

"Well, Mr. Spock, I think that's enough excitement for one night, ah, morning, don't you?" He tried to edge his way down the corridor towards the turbolift, but Spock was having none of it and stepped directly into his path of flight before he could make a run for it.

"Indeed Captain. I am wholly prepared for a quiet conversation between us that will hopefully entail none of your usual 'excitement'."

"Conversation?" Jim asked weakly, wondering what Spock would do if he turned tail and ran as fast as his legs would carry him in the opposite direction. Probably tackle him to the ground and sit on him with his superior strength until Jim conceded and agreed to tell him everything. Either that, or security showed up, and somehow he thought they might be more apt to believe in Spock's innocence than his. What was the ship coming to when a captain couldn't even rely on his own security force to believe him over his second in command?

Jim sighed. "Alright, Spock," he said, resigned. "Lead the way."

The way, it seemed, was not, as Jim had expected, the nearest private airlock or open public doorway. Instead it was down the corridor and up the turbolift three decks to the crew quarters, when he was escorted (frog marched) to the first door of the single occupancy rooms and motioned inside after Spock keyed in his access code. The code itself Jim secretly filed away in case of emergency, or if he ever needed it to pull a particularly cunning prank. And it would have to be cunning to have a snowball's chance in hell of pulling one over on Spock.

Abruptly distracted at the notion of getting to see a place he wasn't sure anyone on this ship had ever been privy to (maybe not even Uhura), he trotted inside, looking around with interest as he did. The room was mostly bare, he was disappointed to note, but there were several ornate looking statues of what Jim assumed were historical or mythological figures from Vulcan's ancient past. For a moment, the thought of all that history wiped away with the loss of Vulcan, the monumental destruction of not just a race of people but an ideology, a way of life, struck him very suddenly and very hard.

Had he ever even expressed to Spock his condolences over the loss of his entire race? Had he apologized for his part in the, ultimately necessary, plot to remove Spock from command of this ship? He couldn't remember. He didn't think so. Turning, he saw Spock key the door closed and open his mouth to speak, and suddenly it was very important for Jim to be able to say this first.

"I'm sorry," he blurted, before he could think better of it. Spock looked at him blankly, obviously having no idea what he was referring to, and Jim backpedaled, reorganizing his thoughts.

"I mean – about your planet – about Vulcan, your mother, that scene on the bridge when… I didn't mean it, you know. I know that you care about the fate of your species, that you'd have traded yourself in an instant if it would have saved even a fraction more people down on your planet." God, he was babbling; he didn't even know what he was saying, he just knew he had to saying _something_.

Spock looked like he was at a loss over what to say also. "Captain – Jim – it is all right, it –"

"No, Spock, of course it isn't. It isn't all right. But I just needed to tell you – I just needed you to know that… of course I knew everything I was saying on the bridge was bullshit. Of course you care. Of course your species matters to you. And," he paused, aware that this topic was highly volatile, and as likely to get him killed as not. "And of course your mother mattered to you. I know that you loved her. Very much."

Spock stared at him, utterly without words, and he'd never seen his First look so uncomfortable in his own skin, not even after he'd nearly strangled Jim to death on the Enterprise bridge. He waited on tenterhooks, ready to dodge to the right quickly if an unexpected fist should swing his way, and ready to offer more words of explanation if they seemed necessary.

"I –" Spock blinked, closing his mouth, then dropped his eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath. Jim was sorry to have put him in such an emotional state, but not as sorry as he'd have felt afterwards thinking about all the words he could have, should have, said to this man.

When Spock opened his eyes again, there was a peace there that Jim could never have anticipated, and the beauty of that quiet, tragic acceptance made his heart ache in unexpected ways. "I thank you," Spock said softly, looking very grateful indeed. He hesitated, as though debating the merits of saying something further, and Jim tried to give him as encouraging a look as he knew how. "While I appreciate your words, I do have one question."

"Anything," Jim promised brashly, and meant it.

"We have not spoken of that – discussion – since the time of its occurrence, and I would like to know – that is, I would be grateful if you could tell me how…"

Utilizing the insight that would no doubt serve him well as Captain in the years to come, Jim intuitively leapt to the reasoning behind Spock's verbal hesitance. "Since we've never talked about it further, how can I know for certain that you loved your mother?"

"Yes," Spock said softly, gazing at him intently. It made goosebumps break out all over Jim's arms for no apparent reason. "Quite."

Jim shrugged, not knowing quite how to explain it in terms a logical Vulcan might understand but – "No one hits someone that hard or that many times for accusing them of something unless it's either A) completely true or B) completely untrue."

"And how do you know that it is not –"

"Spock," Jim said gently, because even he knew better than to be an insensitive ass with his Vulcan first officer's raw emotions. "You don't need me to answer that. But, since you asked – I saw you transport down to your planet and put this entire ship at risk of the singularity's gravitational pull. If that's not love Spock, then nothing is."

Rather than be reassured, Spock flushed a pale verdant green, something that Jim watched in utter fascination, and said, "I had not – I knew that we would make it back in time, that the ship was in no immediate danger –"

"Spock, I didn't say that because I thought you made the wrong decision. I'm telling you because I know you made the right one. I've never doubted that you did what you thought was necessary. But do I think it was a decision unmotivated by emotion? No." He stepped closer, reached out hesitantly for the first time and touched the reticent Vulcan on the shoulder. "Never doubt that you loved her. I know you did. Believe in that, if you ever start to wonder."

Spock drank in his words as though they were wisdom from the Gods themselves. Jim felt vaguely uncomfortable at being under such sharply devoted scrutiny, but he let that pass. And he didn't remove his hand.

"I shall attempt to do so, Captain."

"Jim."

"Jim," Spock agreed quietly.

"Okay then," the Human said, taking his hands back and dusting them off as though shaking away the emotions themselves in two quick motions. "Now, time to get down to business; I'm completely bagged after the morning from hell. What did you want to ask me?"

But Spock, gazing at him, didn't appear to be in any rush to begin an interrogation. He did look thoughtful, but in a sort of internally focused, distracted way.

"I originally intended to ascertain that you were in good health, and that the second meld had not harmed you in any way. However, I think I need not say anything more to you to confirm that."

"No," Jim agreed, splaying his hands wide as though to say, 'no one here but us perfectly healthy chickens'. "I'm definitely all right. Much better, I should say, than how I was yesterday."

Looking startled, Spock regarded him closely. "How long has this been affecting you, sir?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh God, not you too Spock. Ask Bones if you're that interested; tell him I said it's all right for him to discuss it with you. Oh. And while you're at it, could you do me a huge favor?"

"A favor?"

"Ye-ee-s. Uh, when you talk to McCoy, can you give him the bare bones of what the Vulcan mind meld entails, and why I certainly won't be needing that physical he was threatening to skin me alive with? You know, without mentioning who, exactly, our mutual friend is, in detail."

"I shall endeavor to explain the situation to Dr. McCoy to his satisfaction without revealing the true identity of my future self."

"Thanks Spock. That's a load off my back. Anything else you wanted to ask me about? This is your last chance. I'm beat."

"Beat, sir?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Tired, Spock. I'm very tired. And I'm certainly too tired to reiterate the fact that I'm tired. So. Questions?"

"No," Spock said slowly. "I had wondered what could have motivated my other self to – cultivate such a close familiarity with your counterpart, but… I begin to see that answer without further input from you, Jim. I suggest you return to your quarters and get some rest."

Was that a compliment, Jim wondered. Was that like the Vulcan equivalent of, I get what he sees in you now?

And that thought was just a little bit scary, and thoroughly enough to make him want to hide his head beneath his pillow. Right about – now.

"All right then. Good night, ah, morning, Mr. Spock."

"Good morning, Captain."

The Vulcan watched him go long after Jim had left behind only silence and the blank face of the automatic doors. In the ensuing quiet, Spock had rather the unusual thought that he now had far more questions than he had answers. And somehow he could not remember a time when he had been quite as content to know so little.

End Chapter Three.


	4. Chapter 4

Thank you to everyone again for all the wonderful reviews! It's really keeping me motivated to stick to my promised post schedule! For anyone wondering, it looks like eight chapters in total, and there is a planned sequel I'm two chapters into now.

I wish had a better system for responding to comments... nevertheless, thanks once again!

~*~

Breaking Points

Chapter Four

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: There are dinner dates and then there are _dinner _dates.

~*~

The next day dawned bright and early and completely new for Jim Kirk. He couldn't remember ever having a better rest and wondered if the old Vulcan had put some sort of sleep suggestion somewhere in his head, because he felt as refreshed as if he'd just gone on two weeks leave, and then some.

But looking at the chronometer told him that it probably had little to do with Vulcan mind melds, and more to do with the length of time he'd been in bed. It was 0700 ship's time, the following morning, which would make it almost twenty-two hours he'd slept.

_Wow, melding really takes it out of a guy._

His alarm wasn't due to go off for another half-hour, so instead of the usual sonic shower he preferred he opted for a water shower, far more luxurious and no less cleansing. He even ended up singing something, probably horrendous and terribly off-key, but utterly pleasing to his ears, as he finished his morning ablutions and leisurely saw to his grooming.

Today was going to be a good day. He could feel it.

The bridge was bright and chipper when he stepped onto it, the morning shift crew just beginning to drift in, looking sleepy but cheerful as he greeted each of them with wide grins. Spock was already there, as usual, and he clapped the man on the shoulder before remembering that Vulcans didn't like to be touched. Oh, hell, Spock could shrug him off if he didn't like it.

"Good morning, Mr. Spock," he said happily. "Anything to report?"

"Negative, sir. Ship remains on course, ship status remains unchanged. All is quiet."

"Excellent." He turned and strolled down to his command chair, noting the one person on the bridge who appeared grouchy and sour was standing right next to it. Not even the thought of Bones nagging at him to come in for an exam could bother him today.

"Morning, Bones!" he boomed, giving the doctor a good knock on the shoulder with his fist. The man frowned at him and rubbed his arm, glowering. "What brings you to this neck of the woods?"

"You do," his chief of medicine told him bluntly, looking thoroughly put out to find his captain in such a congenial mood. "Spock contacted me yesterday and told me not to disturb you; a _suggestion _I would have ignored if the ship's sensors didn't confirm that you were sleeping like a baby. But I don't believe that pointy-eared-elf's story for a second. Alien telepathic rituals my ass; right up there with flying pigs –"

"Bones," he said sternly, frowning with mock-severity. "Would Spock lie to you? I mean, _Spock_? Really? There's never been a more honest man, so I guess you never know, maybe pigs really can f-"

"You mean to tell me you let some Vulcan Ambassador you don't even know, who could be anything from a mental head case to some, some psychopath – muck around in your _brain_?" Looking utterly horrified, McCoy hissed out the last in a furious whisper, and Jim frowned, glancing down at the rest of the bridge crew, all of whom seemed too busy to note the ship's surgeon dressing down their captain. All save Spock, who, though sitting quietly at his station, was staring at them intently, obviously privy to every word being spoken. Jim winked at him conspiratorially and got a raised eyebrow in return.

"Psychopath, Bones? I think you've been reading too many intergalactic mystery novels." He raised his hand in sharp rebuke when McCoy opened his mouth to give him a scathing comeback, and said, "All right! All right. I'll come by sickbay after shift if that will make you feel better, but take my word, and Spock's, for it doctor – I am one hundred percent A-okay. Got it?"

Looking far from reassured, his old friend scowled at him mutinously. "_Right_ after shift. No dallying behind or dodging out with excuses about how the Vulcans are making you scrub floors or serve dishes or any crap like that."

"No crap," he agreed, and sent the good doctor on his way.

The day passed slowly, and Jim tried not to think that it might be because of his dinner appointment tonight. He tried not to think about the opportunities that could be afforded to him, talking to someone who knew him, rather, who had known him, this other him, well enough to transfer over some of the man's memories, for God's sake. Memories from a timeline that no longer existed in the same reality as theirs. He shivered. Totally bizarre, but nonetheless very exciting (provided those memories weren't randomly popping up in his brain).

He did stop by sickbay after shift, as promised, but he hadn't lied to his old friend – the readings showed perfectly normal, better than normal even. After grumbling and growling about the stupidity of certain commanding officers who couldn't see the inherent dangers in letting other people wriggle their telepathic fingers in his head – and may it be his own ass in the fire when this came back to bite him, as Bones seemed pretty sure it would – he made his escape, scrambling into civilian clothing and making for the passenger quarters. Bones probably had a point, and if it were any species but a Vulcan who'd done the deed, he might have had more to say about it. But the fact of the matter was that not only did the remaining Vulcans have the positive regard of pretty much every Starfleet higher-up that ever existed – if only for PR purposes – but they were also considered one of the few races for whom telepathic contact was a sanctioned experience. That's what being one of the founding members of the Federation could do, Jim supposed.

Ambassador Spock was waiting for him when Jim arrived at his quarters, dressed in pressed black Vulcan robes, and he smiled to see the man looking so proper. This was about the least rigid Vulcan he knew (not that he knew many) and it seemed somehow strange for him to ascribe to the Vulcan custom of formality.

"Good evening," he said jauntily, and the other turned to look at him, not smiling, but with the squint at the corner of his eyes that meant he was smiling. How Jim knew that he wasn't quite sure, but he filed it away for future conversations.

"Good evening Jim. I trust you slept well?"

"Yep. I get the feeling I have you to thank for some of that. I haven't got anything planned tonight; I was thinking maybe a meal in the one of the rec. rooms. What do you think?"

"Perhaps a meal in one of the rec. rooms and then a game of chess? It was an old ritual between myself and another Captain of the Enterprise I once knew, and I find that in time I have grown to – miss it."

Fascinated by this subtle detail that seemed to reveal so much, he pressed for more. "Oh? In the place you come from, how long have I…?"

"That," the older man admonished, "is something that, as I'm sure you're aware, I will not tell you. Nor is it likely to happen in quite the same way in this universe. Rest assured that if I feel it is in your best interest to know, I will tell you. But that will have to rest on my judgment."

Jim grinned cheekily. "Can't blame me for trying."

"Indeed not. Dinner?"

Dinner was a quick affair overall. They met Sulu and Uhura briefly, and Jim was surprised at the level of discomfort he now felt in the presence of his communications officer. It wasn't as though he and Spock – either Spock – had done anything indecent that might have any impact whatsoever on their relationship, but something itched beneath his skin that didn't sit quite right as he watched the Ambassador speak with her.

They were conversing in Vulcan, and Jim had no idea what was being said; he was bemused at how okay he was with that. Normally he wanted to butt in on every conversation, every point of interest, that he didn't understand or was being blocked out of. Oh well. Truth be told, maybe it was just that he'd rather _not _be privy to their conversation. For all he knew, it was ancient Vulcan love poetry about how they'd grown old together and so on and so forth. The thought annoyed him enough that he spent the final half of the conversation flagrantly flirting with Uhura, a fact that she seemed to endure with gritted teeth and polite disdain.

They took a quick tour of the ship's gardens next, and it was interesting to see Spock move like a man who knew the basic layout of where he was going, but as though it was a long-ago, much beloved experience. He looked like a man happily reacquainting himself with an old friend. Only this time the friend in question happened to be an inanimate object.

When they finally returned to his quarters, Jim's and not the other's because of the presence of T'Sai, their chess game actually got set aside in favor of sharing a quiet drink – a spicy alcoholic beverage from Rigel III for Jim, and a Human fruit juice for Spock.

Jim had resisted asking all night long, but now that they were in complete privacy, he couldn't help it. He had to know.

"So," he said with a devilish grin, "tell me about him."

The aged Vulcan raised an amused eyebrow. "To whom are you referring?"

"Oh, please. Like you don't know. Tell me what it was about that James Kirk that so drew you to him that you established a friendship close enough to define as 'family'. To accomplish _that_, I'm sure he had to be at least half as charming as I am."

Spock gave him such a look of intense contemplation that Jim blinked, sitting up out of the relaxed recline he'd fallen into. "You speak like a man who remains unsure how such a relationship could ever occur for him."

"Well I –" Caught off guard, he fumbled for a flippant response, finally settling on, "Well, it could hardly be said that my first officer and I get along with ease, by any stretch of the imagination."

"Oh? What would you call the conversation that took place between you last night?"

He coughed, having been caught in the process of sipping his beverage. After clearing his lungs, Jim stared at him, astounded. "How the hell did you know about that? Were you monitoring us through the ship's sensors?"

"No. I merely extrapolate based on what I would have done if it were my captain, regardless of our personal relationship to one another. Can you tell me that the conversation – that undoubtedly followed his badgering you into speaking – was the sort of discussion that would persuade you he is an unsuitable choice for a committed relationship?"

"Committed - _what_?" Jim sputtered, jerking upright in astonishment and cursing when his drink slopped over onto his hand. Patting it dry with a nearby cloth, he glared at the other Vulcan, certain he was being mocked. But there was no laughing light in those dark eyes, nor anything but an intently questioning expression on his face. Jim felt his own expression slip into blankness as the implications became clear to him.

"Are you trying to tell me that you… that you and he – that Spock and I –"

"Nothing is certain. And I cannot, of course – or perhaps will not – tell you the course that my life took with my James Kirk. But I will tell you this. There is more, dearly more, to your Spock, and to you, than you can possibly imagine at this moment in time. What you two will be to each other, if you will only open your minds to the possibilities, will be more definitive and more life altering than any other relationship or experience you will encounter in your admittedly intriguing and unique life." The elder paused, regarding his drink, and Jim could think of absolutely nothing to say, witty or otherwise.

"Even now," the man continued softly, "I know that my young self struggles to assimilate the terrible events that have obliterated the life he knew, and that soon he must approach someone to help him find closure. My age provides me experience enough that I no longer require assistance, but in a world that you will never know, my captain provided that closure for me, that presence with which to anchor myself. I cannot tell you how to make this happen between you two. I can only tell you that, if you are willing to take the chance, it will be worth whatever sacrifice you must make, whatever price must be paid, to see it through."

Jim stared at him, suddenly unwilling to hear any more, and yet needing to know the rest. "You're talking like Spock and I are some kind of – of soul mates, or lifemates, or some – whatever. That's a load of crap. There's no such thing as fate, or destiny, or whatever it is you want to call it, and if you –"

"You have had your entire life altered by a Romulan bent on revenge; your entire history rewritten, from the day of your birth until the day of your meeting with the people who will shape your future. And yet somehow you have all found your way to one another, despite the astronomical chances of it happening, despite the changes in this timeline whose ripples are even now expanding. And even knowing this, even as aware of the improbability as you are, you do not believe in even the most remote strand of destiny, of predetermination?"

"No," Jim said flatly, though when you put it like that it did sound just a tiny bit plausible. A very tiny bit.

"Ah. Well, if you cannot believe in fate, I encourage you to have faith in your own good judgment. I believe that my other self will soon see the merits of the relationship I have encouraged him to seek out, and when he does, I hope that you will be as receptive to it as he will need you to be."

"You act like you know me," Jim said, frustrated, incensed at having his own ability to make decisions, to impact his own life, so easily put aside. "But you don't, really. You knew some – some copy of me in another future, or timeline, or something, and I don't doubt that he was as real to you as this drink in my hand or this table is to me, but we're not one and the _same_. We're different _people_. How can you encourage him to seek me out when you can't even –"

"We have touched minds, James Kirk, in more than just this life – but this life will suffice for now. I have seen the man you are, and in some ways, the man you will be. A meld is as intimate a knowing as any other experience you can imagine – it is the ultimate lowering of barriers. I have touched the mind of my friend in you, and I find it as pleasing as it has always been – as I always have."

Oddly and increasingly disturbed – not to mention unbalanced by the surprisingly _emotional _tone to the older man's speech – Jim did what he always did when faced with an untenable situation. He poked it with a sharp stick. "That doesn't in any way mean you _know _me." He made sure to scoff, sneering in a way he'd designed specifically to get under Bones' skin in as short a time as possible.

But Spock was unmoved, his aged face serene, his pale hair in sharp contrast to his dark eyes. It took everything Jim had to hold that placid gaze, root his feet firmly on the ground and not turn away.

"I do know you," the other said, in as gentle a voice as a Vulcan was capable of. "Perhaps better than you know yourself."

"Now that would be a neat trick. You think that just because we've – we've mentally held hands, or whatever, you think because you were friends with _him_, and you think you saw _him _in me, you –"

"If knowing someone can be defined as understanding a person as deeply as they understand themself, the paths they walk and those still to come, then I think we are both aware that I more than meet those requirements. In another life, I walked those paths with you. I find that though the feeling is a selfish one, I cannot help but envy my other self for the adventures that await him at your side; as if he has always been there and always will." The words were eloquent, but the tone was clouded with a distant wistfulness, so remarkably fragile that the angry words that immediately bubbled to Jim's mouth stuttered and clogged his throat like dull sandpaper. There was a grief here, so quietly expressed and so very vast that it made Jim ache in a way that felt terrible and foreign. Sadness, loss, cut him to the marrow of his bones like a blade and tears from another life leapt to his eyes, unbidden. He blinked, startled.

Not only foreign, this, but alien. Unreal. Salt water pricking at his eyes with anguish that wasn't his own. He jerked away from the older man, stumbling blind and winded, one arm raised as though to ward off a blow.

The grief, so real, as fresh as a newly drawn wound, faded out as sharply as it had come, and in its absence, Jim felt both bereft and relieved. And ridiculous, standing there in a classic defensive position, ready to fight heavy fists, Klingons, and Romulans, when all that truly remained to fight was his own emotional turmoil.

"Forgive me." He looked up, blinking away the tears until they vanished unshed. Ambassador Spock's visage was once again a mask of calm and tranquility. "We – that is, your counterpart and I, in the original timeline, were very attuned to one another. In general, Vulcans are touch telepaths only, but between individuals of close association that is not always true. I had not intended to project my psyche to you in such a manner. I apologize."

Jim stared at him guardedly, not at all sure that he liked the idea of a telepath being 'in-tune' with him or his thoughts, especially since, as a psi-limited Human, he had no defense against that sort contact. Not that he didn't trust Spock, but if this was in any way generally applicable to the average telepath he happened to stumble across… the implications to him would be endless, and none of them good.

"Please do not concern yourself that other Vulcans, or even my younger self, will possess the same affinity to you. Becoming familiar with the emanations one mind creates takes a great deal of time, and familiarity. I know nothing of your emotions; if anything, the risk is mine, as I have projected to _you_, rather than the reverse."

Jim pulled further away, far from reassured. "So you can't get a handle on my emotions, fine… are you reading my thoughts then?"

"No," Spock said, and Jim watched as a smile, small but quite obvious and tangible, graced the other mans lips. "Our long friendship has given me insights aside from the telepathic. I need not read your mind, as it is by far less taxing to read your face."

"That simple, is it?" Jim asked dubiously, trying to school said face into blankness. Anxiety pulled at his composure, anxiety he suppressed. There were good reasons he usually avoided getting involved in relationships deep enough to allow the sort of familiarity Spock was implying. Reasons like personal privacy, a healthy fear of commitment, and terminal self-interest.

"You have been accused of many things in your lifetime, Jim, but simple shall never be numbered among them."

Jim opened his mouth to blow the whole thing off with some sort of sarcastic aside, certain that this conversation was getting far too serious for his liking, but –

"Prove it," he found himself saying, his natural curiosity, his need to know and be given answers, momentarily outweighing his need to distance himself from this potentially volatile emotional scenario. "Tell me something about myself you think proves you know me better than anyone else." _Than any lover, or brother, or mother, or friend. Tell me Spock, because I don't believe it._

The Ambassador gazed at him, a gentle, compassionate cast to his features that put every instinct for self-preservation Jim had on alert. He tensed, all his command training screaming desperate mayday signs at him.

"I know what happened to you on Tarsus IV."

The world stopped.

That's what it felt like, anyway, as those words crawled their way through his brain like acid, leaving nothing but ruin in their wake. All the breath whooshed out of him on a single explosive breath.

Tarsus IV. No. That wasn't possible. Never in a thousand years of living would he tell this man, any man, any being, about the horror of Tarsus. That was a nightmare he'd long ago buried beneath the weight of his unwavering desire to live. Spock was lying. _Lying_.

"No," he whispered, tortured for air and unable to breathe.

"Yes," Spock said, just as quietly. "I would not lie to you about this. Not about anything of importance, but most certainly not this."

"Liar," he breathed, backing away rapidly until his back was to the wall. Part of him knew it was only old memories surfacing, old wounds thought healed breaking open again, but a much larger part truly did not care about where these feelings spawned, only that they go. "You're a _liar_."

"You were thirteen," Spock said, over the harsh buzzing in Jim's ears. "The famine had come. You were alone; you were a child. It was not your fault. We all do what we must, to survive."

_**Hey there kid. Come here. That's it. Don't be scared, we won't hurt you. I have something for you. You hungry?**_

"You bastard," he finally got out, "You picked that up from the meld, you – you stole that from my mind, how dare you… I trusted you, I –"

He moved so fast that the room began spinning, or maybe that was him, maybe he was spinning, and the lights were getting dim, and he couldn't believe he'd thought this man was his friend. No friend of his would look into that part of his life and slap him in the face with it, no friend would taunt him with ugly accusations from his past just because they were trying to prove a point. No one could know what had happened on that colony of horror and death and decay and still look at him, knowing what he was and what he'd _done _–

"Jim. Jim! Be still. Be easy." Fingers plucked at his wrists, his arm, his face, one brushing easily against his temple, and there was the touch of thoughts not his own, and it was like a switch being flicked. Suddenly he could breath again, and he was back in his quarters aboard the Enterprise, not in the stinking, bloody cell on Tarsus, rotting away even as the planet was rotting and – and what the hell was wrong with him that he kept letting this man mess around in his head!

He pulled roughly away, wrapping his arms around his torso in what he realized was a childish, defensive gesture, but he couldn't help it. The thought of being touched in that moment was a terribly monstrous thing.

"You're an asshole, you know that?" He rasped, trying to wrap something like dignity back around his shoulders. "I can't believe I trusted you. Get out."

"Jim, it is not at all what you are thinking –"

"Out!" he shouted, stepping forward wildly, fully prepared to use physical force if necessary and damn this old Vulcan's age, or wisdom, or breakable bones, he didn't care, he just wanted him gone.

"Jim, I did not take any memories from your mind. Do you not see? This is what I have been trying to tell you. I have no need to take memories from you; _I already know them_."

Panting, Jim could only stare at him, torn between the kindness, the laughter he remembered from that mental excursion of the meld, the sweetness that had so lured him into feeling empty inside himself. And yet there was another feral part of him that insisted that he get this man out of his quarters now, right now, right this instant, before it was too late.

_Hell_, he thought, dropping his arms, dropping himself back into the chair behind him. _It's already too damned late._ A decade too late.

"If that's true," he said quietly, staring at the ceiling through the shadow of childhood horrors he'd too long put behind him, "then how can you know the details of what happened to me? The memories you carry happened to another man, another Jim Kirk. How can you be sure that the experiences you think we share are the same?"

"I have no such certainty," the older man admitted, coming forward and sitting gently beside him. Jim wanted to yell at him, tell him to move away, but he was just too tired to force the issue, and he had no doubt that it would take greater force than he had to offer at the moment. "I only know the depth of pain in you is one I felt in my own captain, and there are only so many explanations that would account for it. A similar experience on the colony of Tarsus IV at the time of Governor Kodos' mass genocide seemed a logical conclusion to draw."

"You were _bluffing_?"

"I prefer to call it – gifted insight."

Jim laughed. Oh, God. Guessing, the Vulcan had nailed him by guessing when seven earth psychologists, two practicing psychiatrists and three _juvenile_ detention centers had completely missed the point.

"Yeah," he said finally, staring in defeat at his washed out gray ceiling. "Yeah, I guess it would be only _logical_." Honestly curious, he turned his head to regard the other, slightly lopsidedly from his point of view. "How did you get him to tell you? Or did you actually stumble over it accidentally in one of your deeper melds?"

"No," Spock said. "As I have already pointed out, the meld does not normally act in that fashion. It would have been difficult for us to stumble into that depth of memory accidentally. It is possible that at some point further into our link that may have happened, but by the time that topic was raised between us, I was well aware of the details of your experience on Tarsus."

"_How_? In twelve years I haven't told _anybody _what happened on that God-forsaken planet. You can't expect me to believe that one day I just woke up and thought, aw shucks, I think I'll tell Spock today that when I was thirteen I let some pathetic old lecher put his hands on me for a measly piece of –"

"Do not speak of yourself in that way!" Thick fingers, gnarled from age, gripped his shoulders tightly, the Vulcan towering over him as he stared down at him in what was unmistakably anger, almost a rage. Too shocked to protest the hands on his arms, he stared mutely up at the fury on that pale, intent face.

"Jim – my Jim – also spoke as you do, the first time he ever admitted to me the truth of Tarsus. I told him then what I will tell you now, and hope that when you find the strength in yourself to tell my counterpart, he will say to you what I am saying also: it was not your fault. You were thirteen years old. You were not then, nor are you now, to blame for the atrocities that adults choose to visit on them in the depths of a perversion we may never fully understand."

"Oh, I understand it," Jim said with an ugly grin. "They weren't the last, you know. On Tarsus, I mean. I don't know what your Jim Kirk did, or told you, but if he fooled you into thinking it was just the one time, you've been sadly duped my friend –"

"No," Spock said gently, shaking him once roughly. "I am aware that they were not the last. I am – very well aware." Were those tears in the other's eyes? Surely not. If he'd cried for his entire race, who'd died to a madman's evil vengeance, Jim had never seen it. To be witness to such utter desolation now, and know he was the cause, to know that this man had loved his counterpart so, that that love could be his if only he could find it in himself to reach out to his stubborn, intractable Vulcan First –

He closed his eyes. There was no use thinking about it. Spock had Uhura. What did he need with a washed up cadet playing at being a starship captain, who'd been given the position as default when no one else more capable had been available?

"Tell me," Jim murmured, because in spite of it all, he still wanted to know.

"It is true that for most your life you told no one of your experiences on Tarsus. It was years into our friendship before you revealed them to me, and I was not –" A pause. "Well. Perhaps it would simply be prudent to say that, when or if you do tell my counterpart, you should be prepared for something of an unusual reaction. I was – most distressed by the news."

Jim opened his eyes, grinning into the chagrined ones blinking down at him. "I gave you an emotional kick in the ass, huh?"

"Indeed."

Jim laughed, feeling the tension ebb away and was glad for it. He felt utterly exhausted, loose and drained of energy. As full of vigor as he'd been this morning, that was how badly he was crashing now. Life just sucked that way sometimes.

"I'm tired," he whispered.

"I know." Hands drifted from his shoulders down to his wrists. "Come. I will assist you and then leave you to sleep. It is the least I can do." Jim allowed himself to be drawn to his feet, maneuvered to his sleeping alcove. The hands removed his boots, but nothing further, and Jim dimly marveled at how well this being _did _understand him; his desire to be left alone, his need for the privacy and control of his own faculties even in the face of such overwhelming exhaustion.

"Goodnight, dear one. Seek me out when you are ready, and know that I will not push you to speak of things that are not truly meant for my ears. Sleep now."

"Sleep," Jim murmured, and then all that was left was dreams.

While revelations of the highest sort were taking place on one half of the ship, on the other half, the Enterprise's second in command was having revelations of his own.

While his captain had been having dinner with the Ambassador, Spock had been involved in a somewhat more commonplace dinner. It was something of a tradition for Lieutenant Uhura and him to share a meal every third or fourth night, occasionally in one of the mess halls but more usually in one of their quarters. Tonight was, as Nyota had stated, 'her turn', and they had enjoyed a quiet meal of vegetable stir fry and salad, a dish Spock had grown rather fond of over his long association among Humans.

They had been friends for well over a year now, and were quite comfortable together; that comfort was what had led, ultimately, to their foray into more than friendly relations in the past month. So he was not surprised, though he was grateful, to note that conversation tonight was relatively sparse, and the topics pleasantly neutral. He was far too distracted to participate in anything more complicated, though he would have vehemently denied that fact if confronted with it.

He was in the process of a long internal debate that had vacillated for most of the night, swinging from one decision to another. The logical thing to do would, of course, have been to pick one course of action and maintain it, since attempting to predict innumerable results of hypothetical situations involving human emotions was – essentially impossible. But Spock found that logic did not seem to be serving him well these last few months of his life. Tonight appeared no different.

Earlier in the evening, on his way to his quarters to change out of uniform, he had passed by two people also enjoying what he would soon be participating in. He'd thought nothing of it until he'd been about to round the corner toward the turbolift, and had abruptly realized that the pair he had just passed was, in fact, his captain and – himself. His older self. After swinging around to regard them he also noted that they were not, in fact, enjoying dinner as he'd first surmised, but rather standing with full plates, having yet to sit down, conversing with the people at the table adjacent to them.

And seated at that table were Lieutenant Sulu and Lieutenant Uhura.

Stunned, he'd taken in this unexpected turn of events. His counterpart, whom he had so far avoided this entire mission except for the single encounter the previous night, speaking in low, intent tones to his – to Nyota, and looking between them with a curious expression of consternation on his face, Captain James T. Kirk.

Spock did not ascribe to the Human notion of Murphy's Law wherein everything that can go wrong _will _go wrong, but this instance had provided him with a unique opportunity to understand why it was that Humans might feel that it could be so.

He thought about approaching them; he thought about interfering. But as strangely bizarre as the scenario seemed, he also could not see how his added presence would make it less so, and in fact it may make it significantly worse. Instead he waited, in a terrible grip of illogic and indecision, until the two men departed, and Nyota, looking surprised and bewildered, stared after them in confusion until she noticed him standing quite still in the open doorway and smiled at him, a familiar easy smile.

Spock did not smile back and had returned to his quarters with his mind still in a quandary and without any foreseeable ease of his confusion in sight.

Only now, as the dinner between himself and Nyota came to a close, did it occur to him that his window of opportunity for information was fast closing. Being as the lieutenant had been present at the time of the event that had spawned this problem, it seemed logical that she could therefore clarify it, a possibility he had been contemplating most of the night. But, as Spock had already surmised, logic did not seem to serve him well when it regarded situations involving his Human shipmates, and he hesitated as he attempted to envision the possible responses to his query.

The strongest point of contention against asking her was, of course, that there was no logical need for him to know. There was no pertinent information that he could gain, no practical motivation behind his curiosity, certainly no danger to the ship, and that was something the captain was more than capable of ascertaining for himself. He dismissed the option of speaking to Jim personally; the last thing he wanted was to inadvertently alert the captain to his involuntary preoccupation.

So there was no reasoning behind his quiet calculations, and no need to ask Nyota about them further. And yet…

And yet, surely gathering information in all forms was always advisable, he considered, and doing so through all available methods was only logical. Abruptly exhausted with the entire affair he decided to set aside rationality for expediency.

"I observed the captain and his guest approach your table during the afternoon meal today. They remained only a few moments. I would be curious to know what was said at that time."

Nyota paused in the act of gathering their dirty dishes together to throw into the processor for cleaning. She blinked at him in surprise. Spock wasn't usually prone to prying, not that this could be considered prying, but it wasn't often he asked her questions of that nature. Even questions as congenial as 'how was your day' were a foreign idea to a Vulcan since they served no practical purpose; surely if her day hadn't gone well she would tell him. Conversational gambits like small talk were usually avoided like the plague.

Curious, she sat down again, setting aside the plate.

"It's funny that you mentioned it, Spock, because it's been on my mind all day."

"Oh?"

"Yes… well, you know Jim Kirk, always with something smart to say. His two cents in the conversation weren't substantial enough to bear repeating." She rolled her eyes, a uniquely Human gesture that Spock had noted many of his shipmates used to express impatience or frustration. Strangely effective. "His friend was interesting though. I've never seen him before, so I'm not sure how he could have known I'd understand it, but he spoke briefly to me in Vulcan and then he and Kirk left."

"Spoke to you in Vulcan?" Spock echoed, one eyebrow raising in an involuntary gesture of inquiry. "May I ask what he said?"

"He told me that he pleased to see me, and that he'd forgotten how beautiful I was."

Spock felt his eyebrow climb higher, only his impassive face disguising his inner doubt. "He voiced those particular words?"

"Yes. It surprised me, because I've never heard a Vulcan compliment a stranger so freely or so – eloquently."

Emotionally, she meant. The Vulcan language, as with any verbal language, had words designed to describe the senses, but for a Vulcan to use them so freely would have been, not shocking, but certainly unusual. He wondered at his future self's apparent ease with such words and expressions.

"Was that all that was said?" he asked.

"No, and this is the strange part. We exchanged a word or two about Vulcan's relocation efforts. Then, as they were leaving, he turned to me and said, and I quote, 'Until this moment, I had not considered the unexpected ramifications of my actions to others. Confronted with them now, I find that I would not change what I have done, or what I will do; though, I do not do it lightly. But I hope, if my efforts do come to fruition, that in time you might find it in yourself to forgive me."

Alarm, purely unVulcan and unnaturally strong, cut through Spock sharply. "He specifically asked for _your _forgiveness?"

"Yeah, it was like he was warning me of some impending threat, but I had no idea what he could mean. I didn't feel like he was threatening me himself, just that – he knew something I didn't. It was really very strange. What do you think he could have meant?"

"I do not know," he said, at least somewhat truthfully. Assuming that his future self was aware of the relationship that currently existed between Nyota and himself, there were a variety of meanings that could be attached to his words. But Spock's Human instincts were clamoring sharply to be heard. The other had implied that it was only through his actions, through the elder Spock's actions, that something significant might be changed, that some path might be altered. What actions, what path, could those be?

And when he had asked Nyota to forgive him, had he meant himself, or his younger counterpart? There were countless possibilities, all of them dependent on further data; no doubt a Human would have found this eminently confusing, whereas he simply found the scope of the problem endless and disturbing. The only answers he could acquire must come directly from the source and, in truth, Spock simply did not know if he dared risk another conversation with the man who left him so unsettled each time they spoke at any length. Undoubtedly this was a consequence of speaking to someone who had already lived the life he himself was just beginning.

"Are you free tonight Spock?"

Distracted, he barely heard his companion's question. "No," he murmured. "I require time to rest and meditate. Goodnight Nyota. Thank you for the meal." Standing, he bowed to her, in Vulcan acknowledgement, and then pressed his lips to her cheek, in the Human acknowledgement he knew she preferred. Then he took his leave, mind still working away on the issue at hand.

"Goodnight," she said to his back, and reminded herself that she'd sworn never to ask for more from him that he was capable of giving. Even if, she thought, or maybe especially if, he wasn't capable of giving anything.

End Chapter Four.

A/N: For anyone who isn't familiar with TOS, Tarsus IV is canon, it did actually happen, and Jim Kirk was there for it as a child. It's only his personal experiences that I've taken fictional liberties with.


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: I have a beta reader! I'm so excited! Maybe this means greater consistency and fewer punctuation errors from now on! ^_^ One can only hope! Again, I appreciate all the reviews, and for whoever suggested it, I may look into forums for responding to them, thank you!

~*~

Breaking Points

Chapter Five

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Where Jim's Human compassion plays a big part.

~*~

The next day was a tense affair for the majority of the Enterprise crew.

The afternoon became something of an unusual game for most of the bridge shift; a game in which each person tried to maintain a fine balance between completing his or her duties without overt clumsiness _or_ overt efficiency. It quickly became apparent that _either_ state was likely to draw the attention of their superior officers – and _that_ unfortunate side effect was to be avoided at all costs. Several of the engineering crew, after having been introduced to the sharper side of the captain's displeasure, found themselves praying for some sort of minor catastrophe to provide a distraction – an enemy attack, a sudden outbreak of Veleran Fever, or possibly a small moon exploding. Any of those would have been acceptable.

The captain was by far the worst. After staggering in looking as though he'd gone three rounds with a Klingon – and lost – he'd slumped into the center chair and proceeded to spend his entire shift glaring at anyone who dared approach for more than a few seconds at a time. Commander Spock was a near second, although for different reasons: this particular morning he appeared to forget that most of the Enterprise personnel were only Human, with Human limitations, and more than one ensign had suffered the wrath of his impatience as they scrambled to obey his orders. Uhura was studiously ignoring both of the men in question, and they were ignoring her, a feat she was greatly envied for as this, unfortunately, meant that the rest of the bridge personnel were fair game.

In the face of such obvious insanity, everyone was thankful that Dr. McCoy, either through divine intervention or good old-fashioned luck, chose not to make an appearance.

What the rest of the crew couldn't know, but certain of the passengers on board did, were the reasons behind this wildly suspicious behavior. Ambassador Spock knew that it was only a matter of time before Jim Kirk, a man he knew to have both passionate and often conflicting feelings, found the stubborn determination to once again approach him. But even he could not have predicted how quickly the captain would come to his conclusions. There were some ways in which he did not, it seemed, know his new friend as well as he thought. This version was by far more damaged than his own, and one of the pervading results of the damage seemed to be an even faster and more pronounced habit of jumping without looking; a habit which also, thankfully, translated into a tendency to very quickly forgive and forget perceived injuries.

In the afternoon of the fifth day of his stay aboard the Enterprise, Jim sought him out.

"Solkar." Spock turned at the name he had assumed, recognizing the voice that spoke it. He was surprised to see him, but not shocked – pleased, but not astonished.

"Captain Kirk."

The other stared at him for a long, hard moment, as if debating, then truly did startle him by smiling easily, shrugging his shoulders in a loose sprawl and leaning against the doorway. "Jim."

The aged face did not smile, but his eyes did. "Jim."

"I'm on a lunch break at the moment. Do you have time for that talk about your new Vulcan colony I've been wanting to quiz you about?"

"Of course. Walk with me."

So they discussed, among other things, the merits of the planet chosen for Vulcans' new home, and Jim was grateful to discover that his faith in himself had proven true: the longer he was with the older man the more he relaxed, yet again, in his presence. Tarsus was, and would always be, an enormous ghost in his life, and if this man was to be believed, it was a ghost he would, in time, learn to share. But for now, he'd said all he wanted to say about that nightmare, and he was content to move forward, strangely and surprisingly glad to realize that _someone_ knew the truth.

Their conversation took them for an entire circuit around the lower aft quarter of the ship, far beyond the gardens, past the viewscreen on the observation deck, into the Ambassador's quarters. Some topics were avoided – it seemed nothing personal was to be suggested unless Jim brought it up first – but, for the most part, everything was fair game. Jim couldn't help but be astonished every time at the depth of acceptance this man projected to him, gave to him so freely, even knowing so much of his ugly history. And he suspected that this older Spock felt rather as though he was repaying a favor that his Jim Kirk had paid to him – by providing the younger version with a haven of quiet, supportive affection he himself had received so many years into the past.

Jim was glad to note, though, that their conversation at the end had strayed mostly into neutral topics, because when they entered the older mans quarters T'Sai was there, waiting for them. He'd been in the midst of telling the Vulcan about the results of his future transwarp formula – namely a very wet and uncomfortable Scotty – but he broke off at the first sight of that young alien face regarding him so solemnly.

"And how are you today, T'Sai?" he asked, noting that she was perched with a quiet stillness on the low bench extending from the wall, a structure that was particular to these guest quarters. This was the first chance he'd really had to look at the girl up close and he did so now, noting that she was, in the manner of her people, very delicately pretty, with the same dark hair and eye tones that most of them sported. Her eyes seemed somewhat large for her face, but that could just be because they stared at him so blankly following his question. Even as he turned toward her, those eyes slid closed, blocking both him and his scrutiny out.

"T'Sai had undertaken a period of silence since her mischief of several days ago. Though it is over now and she is welcome to speak, she chooses not to."

"Mischief?" He remembered that she'd been in the cargo bay the last time he'd been in these quarters. Surely she hadn't done anything…?

"Yes. She was attempting to locate a certain piece of luggage that we have since discovered is buried too far beneath the supply crates to easily access. Her attempts endangered the safety of her temporary guardian and herself, though no malice was intended."

"What did…?"

"I am given to understand that she wished to retrieve a parcel that had belonged to her mother."

Oh, Christ. Jim had to close his eyes against the sudden wave of compassion that generated. He opened them when he felt he had control, seeing reflected at him from Spock's eyes a degree of understanding that left him unaccountably grateful.

"And she was punished for that?"

"It was not my decision. I have already informed her caretaker at that time that his assessment of the situation was in error; however, T'Sai appears to feel that it was justified."

Yeah, Jim could see where, from a Vulcan standpoint, that might make sense. But from where he stood it just seemed unnecessarily cruel.

Suddenly realizing how little he actually knew about the girl's situation, he glanced at her and then back at the older man. Pitching his voice low, he murmured, "I assume that both of her parents were… when Vulcan..."

"Yes. They were in one of the Southern provinces at the time of Vulcan's destruction, but T'Sai was fortunate enough to have been attending a class on applied sciences with her yearmates in the central city, and was evacuated in time." Though Spock lowered his voice accordingly, Jim doubted that their conversation could fail to reach sensitive Vulcan ears. He ached in sympathy for what he imagined she must be experiencing, hearing the fate of her parents discussed so baldly; somehow he doubted that she felt at all 'fortunate'. He cursed himself for bringing the subject up.

"I see," he said at last, scouring his mind for a more suitable topic.

"Indeed," Spock said slowly, and eyed him in a contemplative fashion that made Jim eye him suspiciously in turn. "T'Sai has conducted herself most admirably during these times of hardship. She has maintained her control to a remarkable degree."

Jim looked at the child, with her stiff posture, tightly clenched eyes and very deliberately still hands. He had no doubt that if he and Spock weren't present, she would have them fisted into tight balls, possibly pounding the floor, and even where he stood he could see her tightly wound form vibrating with energy. For all his worldly knowledge, if Spock thought his young charge was maintaining control, he had a lot to learn about body language. She might appear calm, but beneath the stillness in her eyes Jim had no doubt a violent storm was raging.

He thought of his Vulcan first officer, the mirror of this older man, reigning himself in by the barest of margins, agony and rage and heartache seething just beneath the surface, only the thinnest thread holding him to calm. This girl was like that. Screaming on the inside while the world at large looked on her control with favor, asked her for more and more and more until she'd soon snap precipitously and dangerously beneath the pressure.

Quite suddenly, he couldn't stand another minute of her perfect control being so sorely challenged.

"Solkar," he said, grinning in his most charming manner. "I wonder if you might do me a favor."

An errant eyebrow went up. "A favor, Captain?"

"Yes. As part of our contribution to the relocation project, Mr. Spock (Spock the Younger, like some ancient English lord, he thought gleefully) has stocked our memory banks with a variety of Vulcan foods and recipes. Would you mind selecting a few dishes that you think might be suitable for a human palate? I've had several of my crewmen express an interest in your cuisine, and of course my first officer is far too busy to take the time."

Both eyebrows were up now. "Indeed. I would be pleased to provide you with a list of potential dishes for your crew, Captain. When would you like it delivered to you?"

"Oh," he said pleasantly, blinking in puzzled innocence. "Now would be delightful, if you wouldn't mind."

"Now?"

"Yes. I'm sorry if that's terribly inconvenient. If you have another duty to see to first, I will of course understand." Jim had no idea how this Vulcan telepathy thing worked, but if Spock possessed even a grain of empathic ability, he should surely be able to sense Jim's complete and utter desire for him to be out of this room as soon as possible.

"No, Captain," the Ambassador said, a look rife with speculation aimed in his direction "I am at liberty to see to your request at this time."

"Ah, good. The processors in rec. rooms three and seven, both two decks up, are in the process of being recalibrated. You should be able to find what you need there. I'll wait here."

"Thank you. T'Sai, if you would please refrain from leaving this room, so that I may more easily find you upon my return."

The child opened her eyes, like dark pools in her face. "Of course, elder. I will remain."

A long moment of silence wavered between them, as the older man stared hard at Jim and Jim stared back at him. The request was ridiculous, of course. That information could be accessed from any computer terminal with maintenance functions, and they both knew it. Spock looked between him and T'Sai, the contemplation not fading from his features, and then with a simple bow he left, heading first into the small common area and then out the sliding door, the trail of his footsteps cutting off abruptly.

The girl cut her eyes to him without expression, as though realizing this now left the two of them alone, but with no reaction to that realization. Her hands, no longer under the quiet eye of her guardian, curled tightly into fists. He took a moment to congratulate on himself on his perception, then walked silently to the bench she sat on and perched himself beside her, not touching, but close enough to touch if she'd wished it.

She very obviously did not wish it, as she leaned away from him, tensing her spine until Jim wondered if it might not break. She didn't get up and find a new place to occupy, but from her frigid distance, she might as well have.

They sat in heavy silence for a few minutes as he considered carefully what to say. This was a Vulcan child, not at all like a human, who might already have been bawling into his uniformed shoulder at the first sign of his compassionate silence or support. He'd _been_ this girl at one time, angry and alone, with only adult expectations to rebel against, while she seemed to cope by bowing beneath them. He knew nothing of Vulcans, a fact that he should perhaps remedy, but in the meantime he had only his Human instincts to go on. And those instincts were screaming at him to give this girl a place of comfort to smash her sadness in before it consumed her.

"I'm Captain James T. Kirk, commanding this vessel," he began, feeling his way slowly through. "And you are T'Sai, a refugee from Vulcan. We now know an equal amount about each other. I wonder if you'd be willing to share a bit more about yourself with me. I have a – particular interest in the lives of passengers aboard my ship."

"I do not wish to converse at this time," came the reply, as tersely offered as Jim could ever remember his First speaking in times of high stress or disdain. He struggled not to let loose the sudden grin that almost rose to his lips at her ultra-Vulcan response. A truly remarkable child, indeed.

"Well, I do. And as captain of this ship, I do believe it's my prerogative to pull rank." No response. Obviously Vulcan didn't teach its children humor in their grand quest for universal understanding of all things logical; that was unfortunate, as a sense of humor was something Jim considered of paramount importance for any being living in this galaxy.

"What does it mean – 'to pull rank'?" she asked finally, glancing at him when it became obvious he was neither deterred by her dismissive behavior, nor intending to fill the silence.

"It means invoking my authority as the captain, but it was only a joke, T'Sai."

"Ah." From her expression, he garnered that no one had ever attempted to joke with her before. Abruptly reminded, Jim could feel his natural compassion softening his features, and the very slight widening of her eyes as she observed this.

"Well," he said, as gently as he knew how, "I suppose it's not really true that you know as much about me as I do about you. I know what happened to your parents on Vulcan."

White knuckles clenched whiter, and for a moment Jim thought she might strike out at him. He had a most bizarre urge to defend himself, remembering the feel of adult Vulcan hands hammering down on his arms, the inhuman strength of Spock's fingers wrapped around his throat, choking him, filling him with equal parts triumph and panic –

Enough. He shook that off, turning back to T'Sai's face, where her eyes were again clenched closed, her brow a thundercloud of anger and anguish for anyone willing to look beyond the rigid lines of her control.

"So I suppose it's only fair that I share the same. My mother still lives," he offered, glancing down at his own hand and recalling a time when, like T'Sai, making fists and smashing that fist into something, preferably something with the give of an angry Human body beneath it, seemed the only possible outlet for his anger. "But I never knew my father. He died – before I was born." _As I was born._

She opened her eyes to regard him again but her mouth remained closed, and for a moment he thought she might refuse to answer, fall back on her stoic Vulcan training and snub him in silence, leaving him bereft of options. But her fingers slowly relaxed, resuming a looser fist, her eyes blinked away the angry squint, and, curious, she turned more fully toward him, bumping their knees together. He considered it a small victory.

"You did not know your father?"

Hadn't that always been the biggest issue of his short life? "No, I didn't."

"How did he die?"

_Giving me life._ "Saving lives, in the line of duty. His friends, his crew. My mother."

"He died heroically then?" She asked, without malice. He blinked through the dull pain, a very old pain, that struck him at her innocent question, then thought better of it and let some of it flicker through. If he meant to encourage her to accept her own burden of emotions, he could hardly be seen suppressing his.

"Yes. He lived and died a hero."

She studied him a moment, as solemn as any Vulcan he could ever recall seeing, but for different reasons than her compatriots. "My mother was a minor healer at the Temple of T'Panit, but my father, like yours, was an officer, serving aboard one of Vulcan's deep-space science vessels." She took a deep, bracing breath, and the gesture looked so Human that he blinked in surprise. "The timing of his visit home was – most unfortunate."

Though she delivered the sentence with no emotional inflection, he could see that the effort cost her. What a terribly accurate method of describing the tragedy at the center of both their lives – _most unfortunate._

"Solkar seems to think you have your grief under control," he said, openly expressing her concerns for her. And he wasn't actually sure if the elder Spock truly believed that, or whether he'd said it merely as a sop to her terribly bruised pride. "But I'm not so sure. Grief is one of those very unique, very tricky emotions that, when bottled up on the inside, has a tendency to grow stronger exponentially, rather than weaker. Or that's been my experience, anyway. What do you think?"

She stared at him, his open face, his gently compelling eyes, and he could see the moment her control faltered, like a hairline crack in a fault line. He wondered at the similarity of their species, that familiar capacity to maintain calm until the point of actual confrontation. She looked down, hiding the depths of her reaction and he reached out involuntarily, though he knew it might be a mistake, and tipped her chin up again, until their gazes met, hers in turmoil and his in perfect accord.

"Yes," she said faintly, the sheen of tears not reflected in the steadiness of her voice. "That has – quite been my experience also."

He put a hand on her small shoulder then, though he could feel her stiffen alarmingly, tucking her into his side as his mother used to do for him, one stranger offering comfort to another, without judgement, without censor. He did his best to radiate only the most compassionate of feelings. In a moment, she would either push him away or melt into him, overwhelmed by what he suspected was her first opportunity to openly express her pain. But none of that mattered just then. She was hurting, and he could give her a comfort she'd likely seldom received. Whether she chose to accept it was beside the point. He was here, and so was she.

The wavering, half-choked noise as her control shattered wasn't quite audible – it rang more like a subliminal note, pressing against his ears with sorrow, and it was the most heartrending thing he thought he could remember hearing. Followed closely by Spock's trembling voice when he'd had to verbally relinquish command after trying to kill Jim. She turned fully into him, pressing into his chest as though she wished she could crawl inside it, and he wrapped both arms around her, feeling an anguish not his own tickling at the edge of his consciousness, much as Ambassador Spock's had days ago. Recognizing the signs of her involuntary telepathic projection, he relaxed, letting it flow over and around him, sending her his understanding and support as the pain wracked through her.

It went on for some time; he didn't know how long. Though tears soaked his shirt, she made no further sound – he might not have known she was crying if not for the periodic shakes and shudders that swept through her. Duty tried to trickle into a small corner of his mind after a while, but he shut it out. He had a duty as a sentient being, to this girl and to others like her, who needed a momentary safe haven where it was safe to give way to their fears. Being a captain could take a back seat, if only for a moment, to simply being a man.

When he opened his eyes, Spock was standing in the doorway.

Jim almost had a heart attack. This was not the Spock he'd expected to see back in these quarters sometime in the next little while – rather, this was his younger, less wizened counterpart. Jim felt his pulse rate skyrocket. He tightened his arms unconsciously around his small burden, darted a quick glance down at her, and was instantly relieved to note that somewhere in the mad scramble of emotions she had succumbed to sleep, probably exhausted from her extensive release of emotion.

"How long have you been there?" he whispered furiously, flushing and trying not to show it. Not that he had anything to be embarrassed about, but he'd thought this was rather a private moment, and Spock's presence made it – not unseemly, far from it, but uncomfortable, certainly.

"Approximately 15.76 minutes."

Jim closed his eyes, wondering if he himself was going to need a momentary safe haven here. Fifteen minutes was more than long enough for Spock to have observed the better half of his conversation with T'Sai. And he hadn't said a blasted word. If Jim hadn't been so focussed on the kid he probably would have noticed him sooner, although perhaps not. These crew quarters, as with all the Vulcans' suites, were crowded with cargo and supplies. When could he possibly have arrived unnoticed? He reminded himself to remember in future that Vulcans were like cats – at times superior, always getting into things that they shouldn't, and with an irritatingly silent manner of walking.

"Where's Sp – er, Solkar? I sort of sent him on a wild goose chase."

"Indeed." Obviously Spock had been peeking at the passenger manifests, or maybe he and his counterpart had done a quick introduction with new name included when Jim hadn't been looking. In deference to the sleeping child, his First modulated his voice to a quiet murmur. "The Ambassador is attempting to fulfill your request of him and is indisposed at the moment; a condition he is likely to remain in for the majority of the day." One slanted eyebrow crooked upward in an impressive imitation of hidden amusement.

"It is my understanding that shortly after leaving here, he arrived at rec. rooms three and seven and discovered that they were in an unusable state of disrepair. He then took it upon himself to begin a systematic search for functional processors, boarded one of the turbolifts to begin, and encountered me – quite by accident, of course. He consequently provided an explanation and asked me to return here in his stead to explain his delay." Jim thought brief, unflattering, murderous thoughts about the older Vulcan. _Interfering old man._

He forced himself to let that go and pay attention; Spock was still speaking. "Though I advised him as to the futility of the attempt, he seemed quite determined that the best course of action would be to physically search all available rooms with installed food processors, in hopes that one of them had received the necessity subroutines. He will not find them, of course, as the coding has not yet been implemented. The processors are not required until we reach the new colony."

"And so you came, wanting to see for yourself what all the fuss was about," Jim concluded, grumbling, and shifted around to lift T'Sai into his arms as smoothly as possible. Oblivious to what was taking place, she slept on. Damn Spock – both Spocks, but especially that one – and his heavy-handed, unnecessary interference. If Jim wanted his First to be privy to the kind of information he'd just imparted, he'd do it in his own time, and no thanks to the old man disguising himself as a Vulcan chess master, playing his two pawns together.

"Indeed. I was – curious as to your reasoning behind sending one of our, ah, esteemed guests on a, as you so eloquently described it, 'wild goose chase'."

Jim placed T'Sai on the bed, settling her among the thin Starfleet-issue blankets, hoping that when she woke she would feel no shame for her release. He resolved to seek her out later, let her know that there should be no censor for emotional indulgence in times of great need, and the hell with whatever Vulcan philosophy said otherwise.

Oh, damn. He had the feeling that stepping on the philosophy of an endangered sentient species was probably not as kosher as he'd like. He hoped he hadn't just created some terrible diplomatic issue here. Even if he had, it had been worth it. Still. Something to keep an eye on.

"I didn't care so much that he follow that particular goose Spock, just that it take him a while to find it. I was counting on that Vulcan stubbornness to keep him going for a while." Vulcan stubbornness and an almost human understanding about the depth of emotion that the elder Spock seemed to possess while his younger self had yet to find it.

"I see," the Vulcan said quietly, watching as the other rearranged the blankets around the small form with tenderness and affection. Such a gesture towards someone that could only be a stranger to his captain – and a stranger of a different species, besides – made something visceral in Spock ache sharply. Nyota had tried to reach him in a similar manner, but the grief then had been too horrifying, too overwhelming. He'd feared to hurt her if he released the storm of emotion inside of him.

Instead he'd released the grief in fists and anger on the bridge of this ship, and it was not Nyota he'd hurt. Abruptly disturbed to recall the incident, and Jim's seeming acceptance of its necessity, he put it aside. What a curious Human his captain was – this man who so bravely and fearlessly stood in the face of Vulcan rage and Vulcan grief, unbowed and unharmed, but not unaffected. Spock had never met another Human, to his knowledge, who so easily circumvented all of Spock's attempts to categorize him, or who so swiftly found the chinks in his armor and so easily drove beneath his shields.

It occurred to him, unexpectedly, that here was a man built on such passionate discipline and depth of character that he could extend his unwavering support to others and still maintain his own core of strength. It was, of course, one of the first things cadets in the command line were taught: control of themselves in the face of overwhelming situations.

Perhaps the captain might also be amenable to providing a different sort of assistance to his first officer, if Spock could only bring himself to ask. He doubted, after witnessing this astounding display of sensitivity (James Kirk, sensitive? He must tell Nyota; she might possibly expire in laughter) that he would be turned away outright. As T'Sai even now slept more deeply than she likely had since the destruction of Vulcan, perhaps there could be no shame in asking such a man as James Kirk for help…

Jim turned, and Spock tried to wipe his face of all uncertainty, but something must have lingered. The other stepped up to him in concern, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder in that way of casual contact Humans sometimes had. Spock decided that with this man, this human, he would not try to avoid it.

"I'm sorry Spock, that conversation couldn't have been easy for you to hear."

He could have, perhaps should have, shrugged off that reaching, comforting hand, but he didn't. Wouldn't. "Easy? No," and it took every ounce of humanity inside him to admit that so freely to this man, the edges of a grief he'd revealed only to his father, "but – enlightening."

"And the path to enlightenment is the prerogative of all Vulcans." The smile Jim gave him, full of warmth and camaraderie and a fellowship that Spock had never before experienced, left him almost breathless.

"Indeed," he murmured. Jim's hand slipped from his shoulder and Spock immediately noted, quite disconcerted, that he felt its absence sharply.

"Jim," he said.

The captain stopped, in the act of pressing the door release. "Yes, Spock?"

"Your – academic hearing. The Kobayashi Maru. Your father… when I said – that is, when I argued the necessity for every command officer to understand the particulars of the no-win scenario, of facing death, I had not intended –"

"Spock," Jim said, replacing his hand, and Spock wished he didn't savor the sensation of the other's positive regard quite so much. He accepted the grin turned in his direction, falling quiet. "It's all right. I'll be the first to admit that wasn't exactly my fondest first meeting, but thankfully Starfleet ruled in my favor, regardless of your apparently legendary status among the academy instructors. And to be fair, your point was – quite logical, from your perspective. Even if, at the time, all I wanted to do was wring your scrawny neck."

"'Scrawny' is an incorrect word choice, Captain. My neck is of proportionate size to the rest of my body. And for the sake of accuracy, I should perhaps also point out that my parents –" He took a breath, the memory of his mother's gentle eyes and time-laden face jumping immediately to mind. He felt the hand tighten, the other coming up to grasp his elbow, and he was amazed at the controlled compassion he could feel projecting towards him, devoid of pity. Instead it was crowded with an understanding he now realized they shared, as two survivors with no outlet to their pain but to go on, as best they could. The resonance that sprang up between them gave Spock such a feeling of unexpected security that he could scarcely contain it behind his formidable shields. He had to close his eyes to refocus his thoughts on the moment.

"My parents," he continued, opening his eyes again and fixing his commanding officer with his most wry, unblinking expression, "were married at the time of my birth, and I cannot therefore be, as Dr. McCoy is frequently fond of referring to me as, a 'pointy-eared bastard'."

He hurriedly pressed the door release and lead the captain out of the room, before his stammering and red-faced sputtering could wake T'Sai, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted behind them.

End Chapter Five.


	6. Chapter 6

I'm blown away by the continuous support I'm getting for this story. I love some of the detail people put into their reviews, but even a short 'nice chapter' really makes my day! So, thank you very much to everyone who continues to respond!

~*~

Breaking Points

Chapter Six

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Where Spock needs help, and Jim is given a first-hand look into Vulcan mysticism.

~*~

The next morning was both the most interesting and the most puzzling of Jim's so-far short sojourn into command.

His dreams that night had been moderately disturbing, more for their content than their violence. Seeing the red sands of Vulcan once again in his nocturnal wanderings had been disconcerting – but waking had given him an intimate understanding about the difference between a meld-induced memory and a regular old-fashioned consequence of human sleep. It had lacked the intensity and depth of his last roaring nightmare about the desert planet – and while the pervasive sadness had been unexpected, he thought T'Sai's grief was explanation enough. All in all, he'd had worse nights. If he chose to include the nights he'd spent before entering Starfleet Academy, he'd had by _far_ worse nights.

What really made it an interesting morning, though, wasn't what had happened to precede it, but what lay ahead of it. When he opened his door to greet the new day, his First was standing in the corridor, waiting for him.

He froze in the act of exiting his quarters, blinking in surprise, and noted the black eyes lifting from a datapad to regard him with uncommon openness. After ushering him out of the Vulcan guest quarters yesterday afternoon and accompanying him back to the bridge, he and Spock had parted ways naturally, each returning to their own station and seeing to their individual duties. Preoccupied with the events following lunch, Jim honestly hadn't spared the man much thought. To see him here, now, when the captain knew for certain that Spock's regular morning routine involved arriving at the bridge at least an hour early, was – well, odd, to say the least.

It must have something to do with last night, since Jim couldn't ever remember his First paying him such focused attention before. If anything, they'd both gone out of their way to avoid personal encounters – but that had been prior to Ambassador Spock's arrival and unexpected impact on their burgeoning antagonistic-camaraderie-slash-friendship. Jim thought about being embarrassed at his First catching him in an emotional powwow with T'Sai, but he was, frankly, tired of feeling like he had to account for every little thing that he did. If he wanted to have what should have been a private conversation with a passenger on board his ship, even a young Vulcan passenger, he thought he was more than capable of doing so without permission from his first officer.

_Oops_. _Getting a bit defensive there, Jim boy; that wouldn't be your own insecurity talking, would it? Better stop that before you develop a complex and end up talking to yourself._

"Spock," he greeted, deliberately completing his move into the hallway. "Good morning. Is there something I can do for you?"

Black eyes – no, they were actually a very dark brown – blinked at him solemnly. Jim tried not to feel like a bug under a magnifying glass as they scrutinized him with disturbing intensity. "Yes, Captain."

The moment of silence stretched ridiculously, and it was a second before Jim realized he was waiting for a continuation of that sentence that just wasn't going to happen without some encouragement from him. He mentally rolled his eyes at inter-species etiquette differences.

"Well, take your best shot then. I'm all ears."

One eyebrow tipped upward inquiringly. "All ears, sir?"

Jim bit his lip to keep from grinning. "It means I'm listening. Ask your question."

"Ah." The Vulcan continued to look at him contemplatively, lowering the datapad and tucking both hands at parade rest behind his back. Jim did a quick double take when he noticed that Spock was almost shifting his weight from one foot to the other, in some form of indecision. He couldn't help but stare, taken aback. Whatever this was, it was no meaningless request, no casual inquiry. He took a moment to wonder what could put a Vulcan so out of sorts.

"Captain, I would like to speak to you about a – personal matter. I have a request to make, if I could have a moment of your time."

Sudden compassion flooded Jim, buoyed along by a healthy dose of sympathetic embarrassment for Spock. From the looks of things, what he needed stemmed from somewhere in his emotional needs, and addressing them in the public corridor outside the captain's quarters was probably not the most conducive atmosphere to promote comfort.

Hastily taking a step backwards, Jim reentered his rooms, gesturing haphazardly for Spock to join him. When they were both firmly ensconced behind closed doors, he had to suppress the unexpectedly intense urge to reach out and touch to other man, confirm through the tips of his fingers whether he was actually as tensely wound as he appeared. The connection that had flowed so easily between them yesterday seemed absent – in the harsh light of morning, he felt particularly gauche and uncoordinated next to Spock's composure.

"What is it, Spock?" he queried carefully, trying to project an air of nonjudgmental curiosity. Somehow he got the idea that overt emotionalism in this instance would not be welcomed.

His First took a breath of air, but not, Jim thought, to fortify himself. Rather, it seemed an effort at organizing his thoughts.

"Captain. Jim. I would like to request that you… that is, I would like to request your participation in a small Vulcan ceremony. It is a ritual designed by my people to reassert control in the face of – emotional instability. I have not had a chance to perform it since our – since the Enterprise returned to Earth at the conclusion of our last mission."

Only his long experience at nonchalantly rolling with the punches kept Jim's mouth from dropping open in astonishment. As it was, he had to perform a series of quick aptitude questions in his head to keep from blurting out the first few choice phrases that leapt to his mind. Namely that he was the last person a Vulcan should want to perform a ritual on emotional control with.

"Spock," he began, schooling his face to neutrality, "not that I'm not… I mean, not that I'm not flattered that you approached me with this, and I'm not willing, but shouldn't you be asking someone else to help you? Your father, or Uhura –"

"My father is not among the passengers currently on board the Enterprise," Spock said, withdrawing stiffly; Jim thought painfully that his hesitation might have been seen as an impending rejection. "Nor would he be an appropriate choice, as he is likely experiencing a similar sense of disorientation. And Lieutenant Uhura is… We have been close for some time now, and I have always appreciated her support, but this ritual is designed to – purge the edges of emotion, in order that I might find a semblance of balance within myself. Her temperament is not entirely suitable to this experience."

"She cares; she's too close to the issue," Jim translated.

Spock nodded. "Indeed."

"Not to play devil's advocate or anything here, but I'm not exactly indifferent to the suffering you or your people have experienced, Spock." He tried not to let the tiny kernel of resentment shine through in his voice. What was he, an emotional black hole that Spock thought somehow reacted not at all to his grief? "What makes you think I'm any more suitable to this ceremony of yours than Uhura?"

"Command training requires a certain amount of – emotional absence. Cultivation of the ability to suppress instinctive reactions, in order to strategically approach a situation. It is a particular type of discipline within oneself that Vulcans are – familiar with. While you have not always shown this ability in the strictest sense…" Spock speared him with his eyes in a way that made Jim grin sheepishly, recalling his emotional blowout just before Spock had marooned him on Delta Vega. "…since observing you with the Vulcan child last night, and in reviewing several of your actions prior to your elevation to captain, I have come to believe that your control is sufficient, for a Human, to provide me with the – the grounding that I require."

After a long moment of silence in which Jim tried to identify whether or not this was a compliment, Spock raised his gaze so that he was staring over the captain's shoulder; his hesitation made Jim blink at him suspiciously.

"And I do not believe," the Vulcan said quietly, "that you are, in any way, 'indifferent' to the suffering of my species. Sir."

Jim fought back the urge to smile. It was unbelievably endearing that in the midst of emotional turmoil, Spock was somehow worried about – him. He made his voice as gentle as he could, aware now of what this sort of request must have cost his reticent and extremely private first officer. "Spock, this isn't a discussion between captain and first officer; it's a discussion between friends. And if you're going to ask me to be some sort of emotional anchor, you could at least consistently call me Jim."

"Jim."

"What did you mean," he asked suddenly, unable to prevent his natural curiosity from forming the question, "about my actions before I became captain? Which actions?"

"Initially, your suppression of emotion when you first approached Captain Pike concerning your theory about the Vulcan distress signal. You entered the bridge quite overcome (Jim wrinkled his nose in displeasure at this phrasing, though Spock didn't notice), but in the face of your possible expulsion by force, you immediately shut down all emotional appeals and relayed relevant facts, free of excitement. You will recall that I was forced to admit to your sound grasp of logic, however unanticipated that admission was. Later, your offer to the Romulan, Nero, of a peaceful resolution even in the face of your own tragic connection to him was also quite logical – though extremely unappealing. And, of course, the strategy you employed to provoke me, in order to attain command of this ship, was done with uncommon insight and without fear or excessive – enjoyment."

"Spock, I would never have _enjoyed_ anything about that. If this is about my apology from before, I meant it –"

"I am aware of that," Spock interrupted. "And I am also aware of the Human propensity to strike out at perceived wrongdoing, which, in light of the facts, you would have been within your rights to claim."

"Yeah, well," Jim commented with wry irony, "not like I wasn't asking for it. Even if it wasn't one of your, how did your counterpart put it… 'more logical decisions'."

"Indeed. I cite these instances only to explain why I have chosen to approach you in regards to this, not to supply either of us with unproductive accusations. If you do not feel you are capable of assisting me, I place no obligation on you. Many of my people have found this ritual to be – impossible, considering the current status of our race. Its lack would no more affect my performance than it would any other's."

_Then why did you ask me to help you_? Jim almost said, but pulled back at the last second. That question was a little more accusatory than he actually intended. And something occurred to him suddenly, the echo of Ambassador Spock's voice coming back to him from two days ago.

…_even now, I know that my young self struggles to assimilate the terrible events that have obliterated the life he knew, and that soon he must approach someone to help him find closure…_

Truthfully, did he really need explanations in excruciating detail about why Spock had come to him? The fact was that he _had_, and if Jim could provide him with something he needed, could he really, in good conscience, deny him? Also, there was also a little (okay, more than a little) thrill of anticipation at the idea that Spock had actually extended the equivalent of an olive branch in his direction; it was more than he could have hoped for, given their unfortunate tendency to grate on one another.

"All right, Spock. If you need something from me that you think I can provide, I'd be more than happy to do so. Don't say I didn't warn you though; I'm not exactly the most reliable Human you could have approached to help you find emotional balance. Most days I'm on an emotional seesaw of my own."

The eyebrow twitched upward, but it was the look in his eyes that gave him away, that made Jim realize, with a sudden shock, that the Vulcan was – there could be no other explanation – there was no other way to describe it – _teasing _him.

"'Seesaw', sir?"

Jim stared at him, aghast. "I don't believe this," he gaped, blown away. "You already know what a seesaw is, don't you? In fact, I bet half the times you've asked me to clarify an idiom for you, you've known exactly what it was you were asking me about! You were doing it _deliberately –_ to piss me off!"

No expression was evident on that face, but his eyes – his eyes smiled in a way that reminded Jim suddenly, and painfully, of his older counterpart, whom Jim had already begun to count as a very dear and unique friend.

It was one of the first indications Jim had so far received that the two Spocks shared more in common than just a similar set of genes. It made an unexpected lightness zing through him, the sort of exhilaration that normally only followed one of Jim's many (often disastrous) 'Eureka!' moments. He had to remind himself that this sort of schoolboy excitement over something so simple was really too embarrassing for words. He felt like the student in the back of the class, jumping up and down and yelling, 'oh, me! Me! Pick me!'

"A Vulcan would not deliberately attempt to anger another, Captain. I am unaware of any instances of that nature."

"Oh, I just bet you aren't, Mr. Spock," Jim said, laughing, and they walked into the corridor simultaneously, moving, for the first time that Jim could recall, as though completely in sync, with complete understanding of one another. It was a very heady feeling.

Needless to say, the morning shift was singularly unproductive. For him, anyway; Spock seemed completely unaffected by their little tete-a-tete this morning. Jim signed datapads whenever they were shoved in front of him, but for the most part the day flew by in a colorful collage of images that he couldn't quite recall later. It might have been different if something exciting had happened, but they were safely within Federation space, far outside the reaches of their enemies. The only thing that might have cropped up to interrupt their journey was some sort of internal disaster, and Jim was glad to note that as the day wore on, none were forthcoming.

Throughout most of the afternoon Jim found himself restless, unaccountably nervous at taking what appeared to be the first step in a possible relationship with his First. It was unusual for him to feel this exhilarated at the prospect of – well, basically spending a friendly evening lending someone else a hand. Granted, this was a 'someone else' that, if he were to believe the good Ambassador, would shortly become the single most defining person in his life, but still… He had to squelch his own excitement, reminding himself that Spock had asked him for this favor because of his ability to withdraw from his own emotions when needed. He wondered what this supposed ritual of Spock's entailed. He probably should have asked that before agreeing to participate…

He had one very awkward moment of internal indecision near shift's end: he'd turned around to hand his paperwork to a yeoman and was unexpectedly hit broadside by the sight of Uhura's graceful figure, bent efficiently over her post. A faint feeling of guilt immediately tried to prick at his conscience, but he firmly trod on it until it disappeared. There was obviously no reason for him to feel guilty here. There was nothing untoward in one friend asking another friend to provide emotional support and grounding.

Even if that friend was a Vulcan. And even if that Vulcan was Spock. Right.

He was surprised to be almost accosted as he handed over command to the evening crew; the first officer had never waited overtly for his commander to finish his duties before quitting for the night. Granted, most of the bridge crew had a tendency to follow their captain's lead, but this was the first time he could remember Spock standing so still, so obviously waiting on something other than a last-minute report to come through before he left. Jim approached him, irritated with his sudden spate of nerves, and forced himself to put them aside, letting his natural exuberance take over.

"Well, Spock," he said, clapping a hand to the Vulcan's shoulder.

_Oops_, he thought, _Vulcans don't like to be – _oh, whatever, Spock could say so himself if it bothered him. Jim had always found it easiest to identify with people through casual touch, and he was tired of trying to stifle his natural inclinations. "Shall we?"

But Spock didn't pull away. In fact, if anything, the rigid tension that had suffused his frame dissolved slightly at his captain's lighthearted attitude. "Yes, sir." Jim realized he was moving his thumb against that shoulder in what could only be called a caress and hurriedly withdrew his hands back into his own personal space.

"Jim," he reminded the Vulcan, to distract him, as they moved into the turbolift together.

"Jim."

Vulcan stability ceremonies, Jim shortly discovered, looked about as exciting as every other likely Vulcan ritual, regardless of the emotional disclaimer: dull. Spock's explanation was vague – Jim wondered if it was deliberately vague – as he was once again introduced to his First's quarters, and one of the artifacts he'd previously noticed brought forward.

"The usual method of suppressing grief requires mostly private meditation," Spock commented as he arranged what looked like a small fire pot on top of a thick floor mat, lit it, then knelt in front of it. Jim followed suit, facing him, hoping that this was the correct response.

"If it requires private meditation, why am I here?"

"As I said, that is the usual practice of suppressing grief. In this instance I, as with many of my people, am dealing with an experience that transcends grief. You are aware that Vulcans are telepaths?"

"Yes," Jim agreed, even though Spock had surely already known that. It was sort of hard to miss, given the disaster of Jim's first ever introduction to Vulcan mental practices.

"The destruction of our planet, our species, has left – something of a psychic void within our midst. An absence, which is difficult to describe to someone who has not lived through it."

"Try," Jim suggested.

Spock eyed him for a moment, picking his words with care. "Each of us that yet lives has experienced the telepathic backlash of our species dying. Imagine – billions of Vulcans, releasing their final impressions at the moment of their deaths, impressions that were received in the minds of the survivors. For those who have long studied the mental arts – healers, disciples of the Kohlinar – the effects are minimal. For the majority, however, this psychic echo has proven – unusually disorienting." What a pleasantly neutral word, Jim noted, to describe such a terrible massacre: disorienting.

"As I stated previously, if left unimpeded, the effects of my exposure would fade in time: weeks, or perhaps months. But given the option to… reinforce… my telepathic centers, I would not turn such an opportunity away. Reinforcement is an imprecise metaphor, but the Human language is somewhat limited in this case – it is, as I said, quite difficult to explain."

Jim tried to imagine what hearing the death cries of six billion Vulcans would be like, and was ridiculously thankful that he lacked the telepathic ability to understand exactly what it was Spock was talking about.

"All right," he said quietly, not wanting the man to have to go into further efforts of explanation. "So you'll be on your own for that part. What do you need me to do?"

"You are here only as – an observer. If something goes awry, I may require medical attention when the ritual is over; I will rely on your judgment in this matter. A loss of this magnitude would generally be seen to by a healer, but there are precious few healers left among the Vulcans, and even were they themselves not already affected – I am certain their efforts are already being sought by an enormous number."

Jim wanted to ask what his own emotional control had had to do with the decision to single him out if he was only here to observe, but he kept his silence, for once, and just nodded.

"I cannot describe what this experience will be like for you," Spock said quietly, settling back on his heels in a standard meditation position. "I have not heard of a Human performing this service before. The purpose of an observer is twofold – you will monitor my health, but also act as anchor in the case of my own inability to control. I have never..." and Jim was surprised to see a faint green flush form on those pale Vulcan cheeks. That was twice he'd seen Spock blush in this last week. He couldn't help gawking for one very awkward moment.

"I have never before asked another to witness as I stabilize my shields," Spock finished quietly, gaze fixed firmly on the floor.

Unable to stop himself, Jim reached out, touching the backs of the other's hands. Spock flinched, but Jim didn't let that stop him from trying to project an air of compassionate acceptance in his direction.

"I've heard that Vulcans experience the same emotions Humans do," Jim found himself saying, remembering Spock's counterpart in his mind, the overwhelming and unstoppable flood of what lay beneath his impassive surface. "If that's true, then you must know that there's no shame in feeling – only in making irrational decisions based on those feelings." He ruefully acknowledged that he was sometimes quite guilty of doing that very thing.

He curled his hands gently around those lax fingers. "And there's no shame in healing, either," he pointed out.

A long moment passed in which there was nothing but the circulation of the air vents for noise, and then Spock turned his hands over, squeezing silently. They drew apart, each settling on either side of the mat with the fire pot between them. Spock closed his eyes and Jim knew that this – whatever it was – had begun.

It seemed mostly uneventful, really. He watched in silence as, gradually, Spock's Vulcan rigidity slowly lessened until it simply appeared to vanish, leaving only a gentle sense of quiet and relaxation radiating from him. Jim forcibly suppressed his own feelings of gratitude and astonishment that he was being given this opportunity to see this Vulcan – any Vulcan, but especially this one – consciously lower the barriers he showed to the rest of the world. The sense of pride and exhilaration was harder to subdue, but he did it, setting them aside to look at another time, one when he wasn't being counted on to watch out for the psychological welfare of his officer. His friend.

Time passed, slowly, and he'd never been more content to do nothing but sit and be silent in his life. It was almost eerie.

The first indication he had that this would not be quite as simple and uncomplicated as he thought was when Spock's posture of relaxation gave way to hunched-over effort and tension. Jim had to remind himself that his First knew what he was doing, and that this couldn't be an easy task – surely a certain amount of pain and difficulty was to be expected. He didn't lean forward in concern, even though his intuition was whispering danger signals to him.

A short time after that, he felt his skin begin to itch in a way that he'd never experienced before. It was an all-over sensation, not localized, very subtle, very slight, and very, very irritating. He fought back the urge to move, his legs having long gone numb, but the phenomenon persisted, growing slightly worse the longer he ignored it. He filled his lungs with air and released, one after the other, again, then again, and put the feeling aside.

Next an ache began in his chest, like the worst case of heartburn he'd ever been unfortunate enough to have, blazing just beneath his chest cavity and spreading. This wasn't quite as distracting – more notable because it was there, but it made him take his eyes from Spock for a moment, thoroughly confused as to what was happening. He still didn't move, though heat spread through him like languid, licking flames.

What really brought the answer home for him, however, was the pervasive and unexpected feeling of grief that began, somewhere in the midst of the other physical sensations, to batter at his control.

This, he realized, remaining as still and blank as he possibly could, was why Spock had wanted someone stable here with him. He now understood why it would normally be a healer sitting where he was sitting – and why, lacking one, only someone accorded a very great trust could serve as proxy.

He wondered whether Spock had approached him because _he_ trusted him – or because his older self did. He thought it was probably a combination of both; that, and he doubted that the man had quite realized how much of this Jim would be able to sense.

He forced himself to think; it distracted him from the gamut of reactions running through his First as the man did what he had to. The itch and the heat – he wondered if that was his mind interpreting what was, essentially, an alien experience. Like being physically dizzy or seeing double-images when Ambassador Spock's meld had short-circuited his brain – the Human mind was more limited, psychically, than a Vulcans, unused to input on the levels he'd been receiving it. The brain had to deal with it all somehow, he reasoned.

Or maybe he was just having an allergic reaction to Spock's fire pot. That almost seemed more plausible, actually.

He tried to keep a running tally of his symptoms, but it grew harder with every second that passed. The emotions he could feel projecting from his First began to multiply, taking on other aspects, other flavors. Failure. Overwhelming responsibility. Despair. Death. Thousands, millions, of deaths, experienced vicariously through senses no Human actually possessed. Pain followed next – a deep, unending kind of pain that, left untreated, might devour the whole of a man before it could be fully experienced. Anger, a rage like he'd never known, pushed at him, dragging him down, demanding that he react, fight back, give in.

Jim held on to his stillness by the barest of margins; he realized that trying to fight the flow of feelings was making it harder and relaxed, letting them wash over and through him. Sweat broke out on his forehead. He had a fleeting thought that Spock could have at least told him what his _possible_ reactions to this ritual were – not that it would have stopped him from being here, but it would have prepared him for it. It wasn't the first time he'd had to deal with a foreign telepathic projection, after all.

Over the next eternity of minutes, he fought down his natural Human reactions to the sensations flooding him. He wasn't dealing with a Human ritual here, he was dealing with a Vulcan ritual, and if Spock needed him to endure, just as he himself had to endure, then he could, and would, do so.

Even so, it took all of his command training, and more besides, not to respond in some way when the anger and grief and pain ate away at him with sanity-destroying intensity. And then all that, and everything else, gave way suddenly and precipitously to a horrific, soul-killing bitterness. Melancholy. Loneliness.

_He's thinking of his mother_, Jim thought dimly, hands clenched tightly on his aching thighs. _ Everything else was for his people, the lives lost, the echo of their dying screams, but this – this is meant solely for his mother._

It was the loneliness, not the rest of it, that finally broke through Jim's emotional lock-down. He reached through the heat of the fire pot, gripping the other's hands in his and squeezing them until he thought he might break his own bones.

"Spock," he rasped. "Spock! Come out of it. You've dealt with what you had to deal with. Dwelling on her death isn't going to bring her back." He tugged forward until the Vulcan, loose and shuddering just faintly at the bombardment, tipped toward him and he had to catch his shoulders, shaking him.

"Spock! Come out of it, now! That's an order!"

The Vulcan's eyes snapped open.

For endless moments in time they regarded one another, Human and Vulcan, and Jim could not recall ever seeing such despair on anyone's face before, not even his own, and he'd had his share of dark times. Then, like a light switch coming on Jim watched as, with an almost physical reflection of it, peace drifted over those pale features, gentling his expression from one of agony into one of quiet, restful acceptance.

"Sorry," Jim said quietly, not letting go of those inhumanly hot shoulders. "I tried to stay out of it, but I don't think relieving that kind of personal loss is going to be much help to you."

"No," Spock breathed, staring at him with such a genuinely grateful expression that it nearly made Jim squirm in discomfort. "You are – quite correct, Jim. Your timing was – fortuitous."

The Vulcan closed his eyes, head bowed momentarily. Utterly unable to stop himself, Jim obsessively smoothed down the ruffles in the soft black hair. It was like his hands, finally given permission to do something other than clench in impotent frustration, were expressing their relief through repetitive action.

The intimacy of the moment was shocking. That Spock allowed it was even more shocking.

Brown eyes opened, some of that essential control restored.

"Thank you," he said simply.

"No problem," Jim muttered, hesitantly withdrawing a little of his support. Spock pulled away from him, slowly, seeming to take the extra seconds to regain his balance and resettle his equilibrium.

"Your actions were – well in keeping with your role in this, Jim. You are quite empathetically perceptive, considering that you have no telepathic gifts of your own."

"Yeah, well… I've had a bit of that since I was pretty young. Mom always said I knew just what buttons to push, and how far I could push them. Comes from being a trouble-maker from the start."

"Indeed." Some part of Jim was sad to see Spock beginning to close himself off again, rearming the façade of non-expression he usually countenanced. Having been given glimpses, in both the Ambassador and now in his First, of the emotions that hovered just beneath the surface of that mask, it seemed to Jim a shame to hide those remarkably intense parts of Spock away. But he pushed that notion firmly aside. Spock was a half-Human hybrid who had chosen the Vulcan way of life. He could only respect that. If he never had another chance to see this side of his First, he'd be grateful for having been given this singular honor.

Speaking of which…

"Did it work?"

"Yes," Spock murmured, straightening his shoulders and rocking his head back slightly in contemplation. Jim tried not to stare at that long, pale expanse of neck. "I have successfully integrated the psychic recoil from the events on Vulcan. Thank you for your assistance, Jim. It would – not have been possible with another."

"Do you need to go to sickbay? That medical requirement you mentioned?"

"No. I am somewhat fatigued, but in sufficient physical health. And you?" the Vulcan asked, gaze suddenly pointed and analytical. "Obviously you experienced somewhat more than I had anticipated. I had not thought my efforts would be so noticeable to a Human… Forgive me. Do _you_ require medical assistance at this time?"

Another echo from days past came back to haunt Jim, and he did his best not to let his sudden alarm show in his face.

…_your counterpart and I were very attuned to one another…in general, Vulcans are touch telepaths only, but between individuals of close association that is not always true…_

Something must have shown through, because Spock sat up very straight, both eyebrows raised in sharp concern. "Jim?"

"No, I'm fine." He said, somewhat unconvincingly. "I just hadn't realized how intense the whole thing would be. You could have warned me, you know?"

Spock looked just a touch annoyed, maybe embarrassed, and Jim felt badly for it. He hadn't meant to shame him, just poke fun at him.

"I was myself ignorant of your probable reactions, or I would have done so. As I previously stated, I have never requested shared meditation before. Can you describe what you mean by 'intense', in greater detail?"

"Let's just say that that's probably the closest you and I will get to sharing headspace without actually melding."

Spock looked both surprised and intrigued by this and Jim had a sudden vision of the entire thing being broken down into some strange science experiment requiring multiple repeated tests of the phenomenon, as well as vigorously documented data. His conscientious first officer might even force him to write a report about it. He quickly stood up before it could degenerate into that.

And promptly fell down, with a faint oomph, when his numb legs gave out immediately, unable to support him.

"Captain!" Spock hurried to his side, helping him scramble to his embarrassed knees again. "Are you all right?"

"Oh yeah, Spock," he grouched, thoroughly irritated. "I'm fine. Unlike you, though, I'm not used to sitting for hours at a time in meditation. My legs don't work quite the same after kneeling for a good thirty, forty minutes."

"I had not thought of this complication," Spock admitted, frowning. "Perhaps Dr. McCoy should be summoned after all –"

"Oh no, don't even think about it! Bones will have my hide if I call him just to relieve a couple pins and needles! Probably hypo me with something vile just because he can. Just give me a minute and I'll limp my way back to my own quarters where I can cry about my pain in private, like a good little captain."

Both eyebrows had disappeared into Spock's hairline. "'Pins and needles', sir?"

"Don't even try it," Jim warned, cautiously beginning to rub out his right leg, which was even now tingling ominously with returning circulation. "I'm not falling for that again."

"Captain, I am truly unaware of –"

"Aht! Aht! You go ahead and do what you need to, I'm just gonna sit here for a minute. Go on Spock, stop hovering like a mother hen; you're reminding me of Bones."

Clearly affronted at this comparison, the Vulcan stood stiffly and Jim had to stifle a smile as he turned without a word, picked up the fire pot, and disappeared into the lavatory. He could understand why Spock took such pains to irritate his captain with repeated requests for explanations of things he already knew – he took a similar enjoyment from endlessly needling his First. He wasn't surprised to note that the slight vindictive edge he'd taken from it in the beginning was gone. That's what happened to people who shared painful experiences, after all. Unexpected closeness and fellowship resulted.

Jim wondered if Spock had ever let someone else bear the burden of his emotional breakdown before. Not that this had been a breakdown, precisely, but it had been some sort of release. Somehow he doubted it. He hoped, with a somewhat guilty personal pride, that in the future he could continue to offer Spock solace of this nature. It was the sort of thing close friends, or family members (or lovers, a tiny voice whispered, that he quickly squashed) did for one another.

Jim let himself out, trying not to stumble too noticeably as he limped his way to his quarters and the relative peace of his own thoughts.

End Chapter Six.


	7. Chapter 7

A special thank you to my beta reader Amanda Warrington - she's like my early Christmas gift! The one that keeps on giving! And thank you again to everyone for all the reviews!

~*~

Breaking Points

Chapter Seven

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Convergence - where everything begins to come together. And fall apart.

~*~

The following morning he wasn't surprised, though he was a little amused, to note that Spock chose to spend his bridge shift below deck, seeing to the Vulcan passengers and assisting the sciences department with a variety of projects. He didn't think his First was avoiding him – exactly – but he wouldn't have been surprised if it'd been a factor in his decision to complete his duties elsewhere.

Human. Vulcan. There were certain constants that existed between them, and it seemed that the discomfort leading to the well known 'morning-after' phenomenon (although, there'd been far less sex involved in this exchange than what Jim was used to) was one of them.

He tried not to let it inflate his mood too greatly. His ego, Bones would no doubt tell him, needed no more boosting, even if Jim thought being asked to provide emotional support to a Vulcan was kind of the equivalent of the ultimate demonstration of prowess. Too bad he couldn't tell anyone.

He went in search of the Ambassador that night, but he had quite a time tracking him down. It seemed he was as involved as his younger counterpart in the scientific efforts of Jim's crew – a fact which made him grin uncontrollably when he thought about the decades of futuristic information that man could probably pass on if he so chose. In the process of trying to find him, he got Shanghai'd into helping Scotty with several repairs in engineering ("Well cap'n, so long as yer here, might I convince ye' to lend a hand, we're short a man t'day –"), and it was a while before he could extricate himself from there.

Didn't Scotty ever sleep, he wondered grumpily. Ridiculous how that man could live off the sustenance of those engines alone.

He finally managed to catch up with Spock (the older one) as it was getting well into the night. Exhausted and wishing tiredly for a long, hot shower and a good night's sleep, he spotted the other talking to one of the maintenance techs, looking once again surprisingly regal in Vulcan's formal robes.

Jim took a moment to wonder where he'd gotten those robes (wasn't he sort of, well, lacking resources in this new timeline?), and then he was sidling up to his crewman's side, throwing a congenial arm around the startled ensign.

"Solkar!" he greeted, firmly capturing the attention of his friend. "I've been looking all over for you. Thank God I found you before Scotty could press me for more help. My chief engineer is a scary man. He had me scrubbing out jefferies tubes. Jefferies tubes, I tell you!"

Well, there hadn't actually been jefferies tubes, but Jim got the impression from the way Scotty'd been eyeing him as he left, that it was a close thing.

"Indeed." The age lines on this Spock's face gave him a particularly Human look of amusement as he regarded the captain. "I apologize for causing you such ignoble difficulty, Jim."

"Forgiven," he said instantly, patting the unwitting ensign on the shoulder. "I'm just about ready to turn in, but I was hoping you'd join me for a late dinner in the mess." He turned a blinding smile on the man he had hold of, noting his dazed look and inwardly congratulating himself on still being able to charm the socks off of anyone he chose to set his sights on. Even his own crew, all of whom had doubtless heard the rumors about his particular brand of insanity and should probably know better by now. "You don't mind if I borrow the man for a quick meal, do you Ensign?"

Speechless, the blond head shook in a hesitant 'no'.

Jim unobtrusively steered him away, still smiling. "Excellent. Go ask Mr. Spock what needs to be done in the meantime. I'll return Solkar in perfect condition when I'm done with him."

"Aye, sir," trailed after him faintly, but Jim was already moving away, the elder matching his stride with thoughtless familiarity, as though this was something they had done a million times. It was almost eerie; it was moments like this where he occasionally wondered if his mind were truly as clear of the meld's influence as the Ambassador claimed. But that worry seemed a very vague and distant concern as they strode down the corridor together.

It reminded him, surprisingly, of just yesterday morning, only that had been a younger version of this man, and the same actions had had a distinctly different flavor. This was the comfort of old friends settling into a familiar pattern. With his First, it had been – nothing near as comfortable, and unsettlingly thrilling.

He put that aside, to be looked at another day. "So," he said presently, feeling as cheerful as he ever had, "having fun holding yourself back from inadvertently giving my sciences department unlimited access to the wonders of the universe?"

"I have found the experience enlightening," Spock said, wise eyes crinkling with expressionless laughter. "Though there are moments where I wonder if I am doing your timeline a disservice. As we have proven with Mr. Scott's transwarp formula, no temporal catastrophe seems likely to occur if I do reveal a limited knowledge of future events."

"That reminds me – how _are_ you keeping Scotty in the dark? You weren't exactly discrete with your whole 'time-traveler-from-the-future-and-yes-they-have-sandwiches' spiel – and it's not like you've been holed up in your quarters this whole trip. He's bound to have noticed you're here."

"As Mr. Scott is aware of the nature of my temporal displacement, but not the details of my identity, I have already taken measures to ensure his cooperation on this matter."

Jim stared at him, sure that he couldn't have meant that the way it sounded. "You didn't, like, threaten him or anything, did you? Isn't that – unethical? Immoral? Not to mention illogical?"

"Mr. Scott has always struck me as an eminently practical and discerning man. He is in the unique position of having access to a font of information the rest of Starfleet is unaware of – and he is quite willing to put aside his personal questions in exchange for further insight into the discoveries of another chief engineer I once knew."

Jim put on the breaks, coming to such an abrupt halt that the other man had to turn and face him, having continued some further steps down the hall.

"You _bribed_ him?" Jim blurted incredulously.

"We came to a mutual agreement."

"What did you offer to tell him?" Jim asked, fascinated at the inner workings of the Ambassador's rather devious mind. "And hey, I know _way_ more about your dirty little secrets than he does, how come I'm getting shafted in the future happenings department?"

"I seem to recall that accidentally providing you with knowledge of your other self's 'future happenings' resulted in some rather unfortunate consequences."

"Yeah, but – this isn't the same thing at all!"

The older Spock's eyes were twinkling at him again; it was really annoying that he could do that and somehow manage to maintain no other expression on his face. Jim knew he was going to both love and hate the day his First added that little skill to his arsenal.

"Jim, I do not believe it is merely flattery when I tell you: the incentive I am in the process of offering you is worth far more than the information I will give to Mr. Scott."

"Do they give Vulcans training on how to be deliberately cryptic?" Jim demanded, somewhere between amused and irritated. "I hope you picked that up later in life, because if Spock starts up with it I'm going to maroon him on the nearest planet experiencing an ice age."

"Perhaps old age has begun to affect me more than I previously anticipated," the Vulcan agreed, without actually agreeing. "Or perhaps I merely wish to limit myself to a very small, very particular sphere of influence. Though, as I mentioned, there have been times where I was – tempted."

"So why not give in to temptation? You said it yourself; your interference has already been proven free of universe-ending consequences. So what stops you from just – revealing all?"

They walked a moment in silence, approaching the mess, and Jim could almost swear that when the answer came, it did so with a self-depreciating smile. "Perhaps it is only that I am finding that – 'old habits die hard'. This world is at once foreign and familiar to me; given a lack of data, I believe it best to err on the side of caution. Of course, as I now posses the gift of perfect hindsight, I will always have the opportunity to reevaluate this conviction in future, should the position prove untenable."

"Well, if you decide to take advantage of those opportunities, I hope I'm first on your list to contact with the latest scoop," Jim commented.

This time it was definitely a very small turning up at the corners of Spock's lips. "You will always be first on my list of beings to consult, Jim. Always." Then the smile faded into an intense stare of concentration. Jim stared back, wondering what that look could mean.

"I am pleased my counterpart found the courage to approach you," the Ambassador said with a carefully crafted tone of nonchalance. "I had wondered at his increased stability today."

The Vulcan studied him with an air of personal approval so strong that it bordered on smugness. If he'd been Human, Jim would have called him proud. Meanwhile, the _actual_ Human found himself struggling not to give in to the flush trying to work its way under his skin. Not that he had anything to be embarrassed about, but he'd never been at his best when confronted with something that touched on his own feelings.

Emotional insecurity? Him? _Never_!

It occurred to him that he hadn't spoken to this man since just before his foray into Vulcan emotionalism, beginning with T'Sai and followed by Spock (he reminded himself to ask about the girl at the first available opportunity during dinner). Could telepaths tell when some kind of empathic contact had happened? Did it linger like a color in the air around his skin? The thought made him quickly squash the very unhelpful picture that popped into his brain of his First examining, quite studiously and with all seriousness, the depth of his captain's 'aura'.

Jim forced himself to blink casually and continue on as though nothing important was being discussed here. "I hadn't noticed any instability before today, to be honest. Spock said something similar, but it sure wasn't obvious to me before he said something about it."

"You forget that my familiarity with him is something of an aberration. While you attempt to observe another person, I observe myself – younger perhaps, but still, nonetheless, me."

Jim grinned, thinking about how strange it would feel if he were in the elder's shoes. Of course, given the opportunity to inform his younger self about future happenings, he doubted he'd have quite such an honorable set of convictions as the Ambassador did. "I bet that would make bluffing hell-on-skates. I'll remind him never to play poker with you."

"Poker is, once again, something I will have to rely on you to teach him, my old friend. I have no doubts that given time, you will prove a formidable instructor." The way he said 'instructor' implied more than just the game of poker. Jim didn't turn quite as red a tomato as they stepped into the mess and the doors closed behind them, but it was a close thing (and why was it that he could talk sex without even a twitch of embarrassment until it came to his first officer…).

Somewhat further down the hall, another Spock, this one in science blues, not black, observed his captain speaking with mystifying ease to his older counterpart, and told himself that what he was feeling could in no way be related, even remotely, to the Human emotion of jealousy.

~ * ~ * ~

Jim had been hoping to catch a quick lunch with the Ambassador the next day, but it proved far too busy. As they drew closer to the Vulcan colony, preparations for disembarking their passengers began in earnest, with the entire crew scrambling to finish all manner of duties. Officers were seen reorganizing and replacing luggage, rechecking all passenger manifests, storing necessary food items, textiles, and construction supplies, and readying all of the haphazardly stowed storage containers for transport. Jim spent most of the day filling out the rest of the paperwork in his in-box, then the evening he'd thought to have free assisting in engineering, once again commandeered by Scotty ("Och, cap'n, just a few more repairs, it'll hardly take a moment-").

Meanwhile, most of the sciences department was busy retrofitting the Enterprise shuttlecrafts to carry their new and unusual burden of a living forest. Some of the Vulcans, it seemed, had created experimental cross-cultures of vegetation suitable for their new colony using the ship's artificial greenhouse environments, and the plants were well on their way to maturity, but were still too delicate to be delivered via the transporter.

Jim found himself scrambling through the ship (and it seemed that today there would indeed be jefferies tubes) alongside midshipmen, ensigns, and engineering crew, as they all struggled to remain just far enough out of each other's ways to work, but not far enough for anyone to be completely comfortable.

He considered that a captain should really be exempt from this sort of grunt work, but any time he tried to suggest it – politely, because he was still too new at this captain gig to bark it – he was stared down from about five different directions. He thought he might have gone a bit overboard on the whole crew informality thing – wasn't he supposed to be the one giving orders around here?

Scotty obviously didn't think so; he might be content to listen to his captain in times of dire emergency – swimming through water coolant systems, hovering on the event horizon of a black hole – but when it came to general maintenance, he seemed pretty assured that he was King. As he finished the mindless task of repairing one of the environmental control panels, Jim resolved to dig up one of the man's skeletons to blackmail him with in future, or he was shortly going to be handing over command to his chief engineer.

"Captain."

The spike of excitement that drove through Jim at the sound of his First's voice was really very unseemly. He pretended to tinker for about fifteen seconds longer than he actually needed to, so that he could regain some semblance of self-respect and nonchalance. He popped his head over the top of the station he was repairing, aware that the grease and dirt caking his skin and clothing were somewhat less than flattering. Then he told himself to stop acting like some thirteen-year-old girl with a crush and grow up.

"Hey, Spock," he said, grinning at the man, not giggling awkwardly, because he was not, actually, a thirteen-year-old girl. Dammit.

The Vulcan eyed him speculatively in a way that made Jim want to check his teeth for the remains of his lunch. You know, just in case. A quick glance at his chronometer showed him that it was late – late enough that Spock was off shift, meaning the captain had probably put in more than enough hours of free labor, thank you very much. He dug through the pile of scrap next to him and picked up the access panel, fitting it neatly back into position and sealing it in place. He wasn't quite finished with the console, but it would do in a pinch, and Scotty could do the rest himself, that old slave driver.

From somewhere above his head, he could feel Spock watching him. After a moment, the Vulcan said, "I was unaware of your apparent proficiency with precision maintenance equipment, sir. I see now that my initial doubts and wish to verify this information, when given it by Mr. Scott, were in error."

"Spock!" he gasped in mock outrage. "You doubted me?"

"Frequently, Captain." Issued from another face wiped so totally blank, the comment might have been extremely offensive, but Spock's innocently widened eyes gave him away.

Jim laughed, clanking his heavy handful of tools down on the station and straightening up from his crouch. His back whined in protest and he took a second to stretch it out, half-turning from side to side and then extending his arms until his spine make an ominous cracking sound. Satisfied, he shook his hands out briskly and regarded his First, who stared at him in solemn, riveted attention.

"It's not good practice to doubt your commanding officer, Mr. Spock," he admonished, beginning to pack away the repair kit with neat efficiency.

"I shall endeavor to inform Admiral Komack of your feelings on this matter at the first available opportunity."

Jim tripped over the kit, stubbing his toe in his effort to whip around incredulously. He hopped about in a great show of pain, regarding Spock in astonishment.

"How the hell did you know about that?"

Spock observed his exaggerated acting with cool disinterest. "Before I received my promotion to Lieutenant-Commander, I spent many months on Earth, instructing cadets in the various levels of advanced computer programming. I am certain no one at Starfleet Academy during that time could possibly be ignorant to the level of animosity between yourself and the admiral."

"I thought Vulcans were above the gossip grapevine!"

"Of course. However, we are not without ears, nor the ability to use them. In particular, the incident with the admiral's office -"

"I didn't know that was his office! I was drunk! It was only the one time! And he never conclusively proved that it was me, anyway."

"A fact I am now in a position to rectify."

Jim stared at him in wide-eyed, betrayed horror, almost unwillingly impressed. "Spock, are you trying to _blackmail_ me?"

"Negative. Vulcans do not blackmail. I merely state facts."

Jim peered at him, his stoic face, his comfortable stance, his uniformly positioned eyebrows. Huh. The Ambassador might have an easy time of it reading his younger self, but it seemed like he had a lot to learn. Speaking of which, maybe Vulcans didn't blackmail, but at least one Vulcan was known for his bribery, and he resolved to remain doubtful over any claims they made that said otherwise.

"Well, come on then," he said finally. "If you're going to stand there and pester me, we might as well grab a bite to eat. I'm starving. You can tell me what other good pieces of gossip you're too high and mighty to know about."

"High and mi-"

"Oh, shove it."

"Yes, sir."

Jim knew he was too ragged looking for a public meal – talk about setting standards of informality for the crew – but that sort of limited his options, and he had to do some quick thinking on their way to the turbolift. He could take a quick shower, but that would leave Spock cooling his heels, and the thought of leaving him to hold a table for them in the mess was somehow extremely awkward. He could invite Spock in to wait for him, but that seemed unexpectedly intimate – the idea of him hopping naked into his fresher and the Vulcan free to examine his rooms with impunity. And not only were his rooms a disaster (he was the youngest captain in the fleet, not the cleanest, that was certain), but he had no doubt Spock would be as unwillingly fascinated with his captain's quarters as Jim had been with his, though maybe more restrained about showing it. They were both the sorts of people who had streaks of curiosity a mile wide. Did Vulcans admit to having prurient curiosity?

He scrutinized Spock out of the corner of his eyes, noting that the other man was also in uniform, though looking somewhat more pressed and professional than his captain. An idea popped into his head.

"You weren't actually planning to eat in that, were you?"

Spock turned to him slightly as they rounded the corner. "To what are you referring?"

"That." Jim gestured disdainfully to the clean lines of his uniform. "Just because we have to work in them doesn't mean they should double as casual wear, you know. Let's make this a meal between friends instead of a meal between colleagues. Go grab something a little less blue and meet me in my cabin; I'll have a yeoman bring something up for us."

They'd walked the remaining few feet to the end of the corridor and pressed the call button for the turbolift before Spock spoke. "You are extending an invitation for a private dinner in your quarters?"

Jim could feel a slow flush crawl its way up his neck. Okay, that sounded a little more suspicious than he'd actually intended (well, mostly more than he'd intended). And it was ridiculous how all his usual pomp and swagger seemed to fizzle when it came to pursing, er, conversing with this Vulcan. "Well, only if you're free. And only if you actually own something that's a little less blue."

"I own many possessions that are not blue."

"Any of those possessions clothes?"

Spock seemed to give this matter a great deal of thought. "My wardrobe outside of uniform and dress uniform contains no articles with any variant of blue coloring."

The turbolift arrived and they stepped on, thankfully alone. Somehow a conversation with his First on the merits of textile design was something he'd rather not have anyone be witness to. "Let me guess; it's all black."

Spock lowered his eyebrows in a haughty, superior looking non-frown that somehow managed to express extreme displeasure anyway. "Black is an efficiently neutral shade for all manner of occasions –"

"Yeah, yeah. Well, go put on something black and then head over. I'll even give you first crack at the menu; what would you like? I'm not picky, and I'm so hungry I could eat a horse at this point."

Spock looked vaguely horrified by this notion. "Do you truly intend to consume –"

"Spock. What do you want? Name it and I'll have it sent up for us. Mind you, if you're thinking Vulcan cuisine, go easy on me, and pick something you think my delicate Human palate can handle."

"Vulcans are vegetarians. Anything that meets that requirement would be acceptable, though I feel I should point out that this would eliminate the possibility of your partaking in equine meat products."

Jim rubbed a hand over his face in a bid for sanity before realizing that it had likely resulted in a thick smear of grease gracing his left cheek and forehead. Last time he ever stepped foot in Engineering before making absolutely sure Scotty wasn't there to finagle him into more grunt work. Oh, and last time he attempted verbal tag with his First while under the influence of a hard day's work.

The turbolift slowed as it reached the senior crew quarters, the doors sweeping quickly open. "Civilian clothes, Spock. Ten minutes. Go."

Spock nodded to him without a word, perhaps taking the new dirt creasing his captain's face as proof that he'd succeeded in driving him to distraction, and set off for his own quarters. Jim, half-certain that this was a mistake and half-certain that it was the opportunity of his lifetime, scrambled for his own, reaching them in moments and hopping into the fresher the second his cabin door swished shut behind him.

As he finished up, having taken possibly the fastest shower in the history of showers, he brought up the ship's store of vegetarian recipes. The list was surprisingly small and he reminded himself to expand it the next time they put in to a starbase. He settled on pasta, Penne Rigate, with mushroom, tomato, and miscellaneous green seasoning. If he couldn't have his 'equine meat products' he was at least going to eat something substantial; none of this salad nonsense.

It was strange to set up his quarters for a casual meal that nonetheless required him to quickly clear away the terrifying mess of his cabin. Thank God he had a very large closet. It hadn't been like this with the elder Spock – he'd felt so comfortable with him, so old-hat, that it hadn't seemed to matter what his quarters looked like or that his appearance might be something less than impressive. The unconditional acceptance that another Jim Kirk had spent a lifetime cultivating had been so easily bestowed on him that it had felt like – like sharing a quiet drink with his brother Sam, or the father he'd never known, or a long-ago lover who was now just a friend. Or some combination of those three. It had felt like family.

This didn't feel like that at all. In fact, the butterflies in his stomach and the obsessive way he kept trying to comb down his hair into some semblance of order reminded him suspiciously of his usual preparations for a date. Which was impossible. Obviously. But that didn't make it any easier for him to stop shoveling the mess and garbage into his unfortunate closet.

Dinner arrived shortly after that and only the thought of what Spock would say if he caught his captain stuffing his face made him put it aside to be devoured shortly. _Although_, he thought, kicking his Starfleet-issue luggage container across the floor, a load of wrinkled clothing gathered haphazardly in his arms, _if the man doesn't show up soon I might just waste away here._

The ring of the buzzer nearly made him leap out of his casual, civilian-issue, white-cotton socks.

_Oh, you have is so bad, James T. And you're setting yourself up for such a hard fall._

He pasted a grin on his face before he could get maudlin and held the dangerously teetering tower of his personal possessions upright while letting the closet doors swoop shut. He reminded himself to let Scotty know there was something wrong with his storage area tomorrow and that he needed him _personally_ to look in on it. He was the captain. He could order things like that. Even from scary chief engineers who seemed certain that the title of captain was an honorific only.

"Come!" he called.

The doors shifted aside to reveal Spock, in civilian clothes, surprisingly not completely black. Pants, yes, and the main body of the shirt, but the front closure to the tunic was semi-formal, closing with a shoulder clasp, and trailing the edge of the seam was embroidered silver lettering – since he couldn't read it, Jim assumed it was Vulcan. Curious, he peered at it.

"Does that say anything I should know about? Insults on the dining customs of Humans, dire warnings, death threats?"

Spock looked down at his own person, apparently unused to having his attire questioned (and for the second time tonight, even). "No."

Jim rolled his eyes. Vulcans: the most annoyingly succinct people in existence. If Spock was looking for another way to irritate his captain, he'd found it. "Come on then. If that's true, I'm definitely too hungry to stand here and waste time talking about things that don't exist."

Spock trailed him further into his quarters. "Is it not counterproductive to mention a topic in conversation that you do not wish to pursue?"

"What, like shooting myself in the foot by bringing up subjects I didn't want to talk about in the first place?"

"Essentially."

"Funny; that sounds like diplomacy to me. Maybe this means I'll be good at it."

Even though he had his back to Spock as he arranged their dinner plates, he could almost _feel_ the pause where the Vulcan tried to decide if this insult could be taken as a personal affront, since Vulcan's were well known for their diplomatic prowess.

"Here we go!" Jim said before Spock could get a word in edgewise. "Bon appetit." He gestured the Vulcan toward the small table setting, which he tried not to feel strange about – it was where Jim had sat just a few days earlier to enjoy an evening with Spock's older counterpart.

This was getting downright odd.

Their dinner conversation was surprisingly enjoyable. If anything, Jim had expected the majority of it to center around work, and some of did, but Spock seemed to take his suggestion about a meal between friends seriously and avoided talking shop. It was probably the first casual encounter he'd ever had with the man that didn't revolve, in some way, around their respective 'fleet ranks.

Even so, he'd never have thought to find himself volunteering personal information to his First (to anyone) of his own free will. He certainly didn't expect to be comfortable enough to start talking about his family, but that's what he ended up doing.

"Mom had a rough time of it, raising me after the Kelvin was destroyed," he found himself saying over a bite of pasta that he classed as a serious contender to his preferred meals of steak and potatoes. He might have to invest some time into sampling a few more vegetarian dishes if food like this was the result. "I don't remember a lot about the first couple years, but I know I didn't make it any easier for her when I got old enough to open my mouth and stick my foot in it."

"Vulcan children lead a somewhat more structured life, even in the initial stages of childhood. My people are born with various levels of eidetic recall, and begin physical and psychological development at a very early age."

"How early?"

"One of my first clear memories is of my father outlining the Vulcan tenants of privacy and personal discipline." Jim thought the utter lack of expression on Spock's face was a little telling, and he kindly did not point out that he thought this was a little tragic. While his own childhood hadn't exactly been sunshine and puppies, there'd been a lot of good moments to go with the bad. He hoped that whatever the equivalent was in a Vulcan's upbringing, Spock had had his share of fun times.

"How old were you?"

"Two Earth years; as I said, Vulcan development begins very quickly."

"No kidding. At two I think I was pretty busy trying to get my chubby fingers into every potentially dangerous gizmo we had in the house. When you were off learning how to control your emotions, I was probably off wreaking havoc with mine."

Jim watched as his First reviewed that statement with solemn attention. Though it flew in the face of his own do-first-regret-later mentality, he was always impressed with the deep consideration Spock gave to each of his comments. It was like he wanted to have all his T's crossed and his I's dotted before he committed anything to verbal memory.

"I have no doubt that your childhood was far more prone to uncontrolled chaos than mine," Spock said at last.

Jim grinned, impishly. "What, not even one moment of chaos? Not a single unintended emotional outburst? I don't believe you, Spock! No one could survive a childhood as boring as that!"

He wasn't sure what exactly changed in that face that alerted him he'd hit a sore spot; maybe it was the barely perceptible purse of thin lips, or maybe it was the crease at the corner of those dark eyes as they winced, just slightly. Whatever it was, it lit up for Jim like a red light, and he froze with a forkful of pasta halfway to his mouth.

"Sorry," he muttered, frowning because it often felt like he never said anything right around this man. "The foot to mouth thing is kind of an instinct at this point; sort of hard to shut off."

"Your apology is unnecessary," Spock said, laying his utensils next to his plate evenly, gaze fixed on something over Jim's shoulder, though he probably wasn't seeing anything actually in these quarters. "The fault is mine."

"I doubt that," Jim said.

There was a long period of silence as Jim awkwardly finished off his pasta and Spock didn't look at him while he did so. The moment stretched like a piano wire between them, tension coiling as the captain tried to sift through the hundreds of implications of his words, discover which one of them had his First sitting across from him so stiffly.

He hadn't quite managed to come up with any likely scenarios – though he had many unlikely ones – when Spock spoke.

"Did your mother ever remarry?"

Jim blinked at him, startled. "No, though she came close once or twice. She had kind of crappy taste in boyfriends, actually. I probably didn't help by making them all want to run for the hills."

"You disapproved of her choices?"

"Not – disapproval, exactly. More like – outright hatred."

Spock looked at him as though this thought was completely and utterly foreign to him. Maybe it was.

"How does the family structure work with Vulcans?"

"Vulcan society has always been somewhat more rigid than Earth's. Familial authority is considered paramount, particularly in adolescence, when hormonal fluctuations can result in erratic behavior. My father was the head of our family, and governed our household relatively free of discord. Challenging or disrespectful behavior such as what you describe might be tolerated in adulthood, when parental authority wanes, but before that such a rebellion would be unheard of. I was considered something of a maverick for my rejection of typical Vulcan mores when I accepted my commission at Starfleet Academy."

"I don't think I'd make a very good Vulcan, Spock," Jim admitted.

"A remarkably accurate summation."

"You wouldn't make a very good Human, either," he pointed out swiftly.

The squint was back in Spock's eyes. Jim felt his own eyes trying to follow suit, and he wondered what he'd said this time to justify that look. He thought it might be literally impossible to have an entire conversation with a Vulcan and not feel at the end that he'd somehow managed to screw it up in about fifteen different ways.

"There are some Vulcans who would disagree with you," Spock remarked in a low voice, completely without inflection. "My mixed heritage was often a point of censure among my peers. Though I tested higher than most of my yearmates, my progress was generally seen as inferior to full-blooded Vulcans, or accomplished in spite of my _disadvantage_ – instead of because of it."

Jim stared at him, taken aback. "That sounds like prejudice to me." He waited to be told that this was clearly a faulty conclusion to draw, and the fact that Spock didn't even bother to try said far more than it didn't.

"I don't get it. Isn't prejudice pretty much the height of irrationality?"

Spock tipped his head in a tiny nod. "While discrimination is often devoid of reason, it can be a powerful driving force. Vulcan was a very insular planet, with a rich historical background and very strict standards of acceptable comportment; it did not always integrate new customs well."

"So what, you were just the new custom on the block? I'll bet your mother had something to say about that."

"She often tried to exert her authority in my favor, but her success was marginal." Jim watched as his dinner guest fiddled with his serving fork – a type of fidgeting he'd never exhibited before. The distance in those dark eyes grew, and the captain could imagine the memories passing through that impressive mind.

"I was always grateful that she put forth the effort at all," Spock said quietly, regarding his utensil with disturbing intensity. Something like grief bled over into his impassive voice. Unable to stand the mounting tension, Jim reached forward and plucked the fork away, pressing his fingers lightly against the hotter-than-Human hand until it fell gently to the table, trapped under his own. Something sparked between them, a vague notion of connection, a pull at the back of his mind that reminded him sharply of the last time he'd physically touched Spock in a moment of emotional vulnerability. He expected his First to pull away, and he did, after a long, suspended moment of silence.

They regarded each other from across the table, and the energy that had sprung up didn't dissipate; it seemed, instead, to hang in the air, like the low rumble of thunder, or the pressure of a coming storm. Jim met those bright, inquisitive eyes with his own and felt the sluggish pounding of his heart rate double.

"Tell me about her," he said. "Your mother. It's obvious she loved you. Tell me why you loved her."

Spock closed his eyes and his lips parted in a soundless breath of air. When he opened them, the peace there made Jim thrill to see it; it was a peace he hoped he had many chances to witness in the future.

Then the peace gave way to the closest expression to a smile Jim had ever seen on Spock's face, and he barely heard the words as he began:

"Her name was Amanda."

End Chapter Seven.

A/N: Two more chapters to go - I meant for it to be eight, but seven twinned up on me somehow, so it'll be nine. And then the sequel. SIGH.


	8. Chapter 8

~*~

Breaking Points

Chapter Eight

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Where someone has a bit of an epiphany and the act of gift-giving has unexpected - or are they expected? - consequences.

~*~

The next day, Jim took to his duties like a man on a mission. Which, he was, obviously, but this mission had nothing to do with Starfleet. Determined to spend the last remaining evening of this voyage with his new (old?) friend, he finished up his bridge duties in record time, delegating anything that didn't need immediate attention to the evening shift. He prudently resisted being roped into more maintenance work (mostly by not budging from the bridge until the last possible moment), and made it a point to send Scotty a private message to fix his cabin closet, with a special request that the chief engineer see to it personally. It took him a Herculean effort to keep his voice smooth and steady for that one.

Though he was admittedly impatient to catch the Ambassador before the dinner hour, when dayshift came to an end, Jim made himself swing by Sickbay first for a quick chat with Bones. He felt a little bad about the fact that he'd basically been ignoring his friend for the entire last week.

He made sure to sneak into the medical bay with his best efforts at stealth; the better to position himself behind the doctor and the nurse chatting with him, and roar in his ear obnoxiously.

"Bones! There you are!" His friend leapt about a foot in the air and ended up half on top of the desk, fumbling wildly for whatever instrument he'd nearly crushed in his sudden flail. The nurse looked appropriately scandalized.

Jim contentedly let him go on for a moment, drinking in his indignant sputtering, before bellowing, "I haven't been threatened with hypo-related-injury in at least a week, man! Have you developed some new Jim Kirk related allergy I should know about? They say overexposure helps with acclimatization you know!"

"Jim! What the hell are you doing! Lower your voice; are you trying to blow my eardrums?"

"Yes!" the captain insisted loudly.

"Well, it's working! Shut up!" The doctor turned toward the young woman, softening his voice into its more professional mien. Behind him, Jim made sure to pout attractively at the pretty blond, contorting his face into a caricature of woebegone misery at his undeservedly harsh reception. He could see the corner of her mouth twitch, though she ignored his antics after that.

"Nurse Chapel, the _captain_ and I will be in my office, planning the date for his nextset of viral inoculations – especially the ones he doesn't actually need_._ If you hear any screaming, don't worry about it. It's probably just me being driven over the edge of sanity."

"Yes, Doctor," she demurred, carefully not looking in the direction of her commanding officer, who was busy making rude faces at McCoy's back. They vanished accordingly when the doctor swung around, hustling the other man out of the treatment room with a few well-placed shoves.

"Jim, when you got promoted – a decision that still haunts my nightmares, by the way – did it ever occur to you that you might need to develop, oh, I don't know… _some_ level of maturity?"

"No," Jim admitted, eyeing him like this was the most ridiculous idea he'd ever heard. "Was that actually a requirement? Pretty sure I missed that memo."

"I think it's more of an unwritten expectation."

"Well, then I guess I'm off the hook; can't follow rules that aren't recorded anywhere, can I?"

"Oh, for God's sake."

It went on that way for a good ten minutes, the banter both familiar and comfortable. Their friendship was one of mutual benefit, really, since Jim never seemed to tire of winding his friend up, and McCoy never seemed to tire of being baited into fits of temper.

Eventually the humor gave way to a general discussion about their Vulcan passengers, of whom McCoy had nothing but minor grumblings – they were, after all, Vulcans. But while his commentary on their guests was grudgingly free of criticism, he did grouch quite convincingly at the captain's suspiciously busy schedule.

"Got a hot date, Jim?"

Jim grinned, delighted to think of what his friend would say if he only knew the truth. "Oh, nothing like that Bones. This is all business." Half business, anyway. Maybe closer to a quarter business.

"And I'm the king of England. I know that look. Who is she?"

Jim laughed outright, shaking an admonishing finger at his friend. "You know something doctor, if I didn't know better, I'd say you were jealous!"

"Jealous! Like I'd want anything to do with any woman who could be fooled by you batting your lashes at them like you've got Orion sand-mites in your eyes –"

He bid his friend good night, walking away with a jaunt in his step and a whistle in his mouth. The irony of it was that in another time, another life, where the person on the other side of this dinner wasn't about one hundred and thirty years his senior, it really just might have _been_ a date. From everything he'd observed so far, this older version of Spock certainly seemed to care about his Jim Kirk – and by association, _this_ Jim Kirk – with a depth of feeling that the captain had rarely seen before, in anyone, or between any two people. Maybe Bones was right, in a very vague and nonsensical way; maybe this wasn't _exactly_ a date, but maybe this was more like a date than it wasn't like a date. Aside from the butterflies in his stomach, which had somehow been present just yesterday but were gone today. Oh, and the lack of sexual attraction.

_But what's sex anyway,_ he wondered, _except a little release of tension and a damn lot of fun?_ It definitely wasn't everything. He'd like to think that in the event of finding a partnership of that depth, he could be open-minded enough that the physical aspects of a union wouldn't be the first things to come to mind.

He smiled ruefully, knowing himself well enough to call his own bullshit when it became obvious. Of course the physical aspects would be one of the first things on his mind; they'd probably be _the_ first things on his mind, actually. Sex was, however base and, ahem, 'illogical', still an enormous and essential part of his life; he was Human, he was male, and he was still young, after all. He firmly believed that it would take a better man than him to give it up just like that!

It was just unfortunate that about the time he was finally getting a first-hand education in love – an emotion he'd never really put much stock in before a certain telepathic Ambassador had bowled him over with it – his lust was kicking up into overdrive and fixating on completely inappropriate targets. Targets like his first officer, for example, who was most definitely off limits, and uninterested, no matter how much Jim's subconscious might wish otherwise (with maybe a teeny tiny bit of the not-so-subconscious part, too).

But there would be time enough to worry about all that later. He had a dinner (date) to enjoy, and set off without another thought, to do just that.

~*~

Jim might have been interested to know that the first officer he'd considered so far out of his reach was not as completely unaffected as he had believed. And that in fact, indifference was the furthest thing from Spock's mind at shift's end, when he'd watched his captain hurry cheerfully away from the bridge to meet the man whom he knew to be his older, more experienced self.

He'd been in the midst of clearing his station for the night when Jim had passed him on his way to the turbolift, exuding an unmistakable air of impatience and enthusiasm. The sight his excitement had left Spock unexpectedly cold, and with the confusing and utterly baseless need to intervene in some way. For the few seconds it took the turbolift to arrive, he had to ruthlessly suppress the inconvenient urge to waylay Jim with the duty roster for the next day, as a temporary measure of disrupting his plans. Such an action would have been most illogical, and perhaps even somewhat contemptible; even more disturbing was the rather large portion of his mind that insisted he disregard this reasoning and accede to his impulses without delay.

Though it was unproductive and entirely outside the realm of his concern, Spock found that he could not help but wonder what secrets might be shared between the captain and his dinner companion tonight. What they might discuss in casual conversation, and what his older self might say to the Human that would draw another smile to that face. If his captain would confide something to the Ambassador, something that should have been his, Spock's, right to know, by virtue of being from the correct timeline for _this_ Jim Kirk.

And at the center of these numerous questions there lay one that he hesitated to admit considering, even to himself, as he did not like to believe that he was as prone to envy or avarice as his Human shipmates. But this focal concern suggested otherwise, as nothing about Jim's evening proclivities disturbed him more than the idea that his captain and his older self would share thoughts again, meld again, in that most intimate of Vulcan embraces. The thought of the Ambassador touching Jim's mind – an experience that Spock himself had thus far only caught glimpses of in the rare contact of their naked hands – was unpleasantly aggravating. He spent many ineffectual moments wondering how he could prevent this potential circumstance from occurring, before possibility became reality.

These thoughts were without purpose, and completely unacceptable, but even so, it took him a tremendous effort to wrench away from them. He sternly reminded himself that Jim was entirely free to make his own choices, and that he was not required to consider the wishes of his first officer in anything but official ship's duties. No matter how deeply those wishes ran, or that in failing to address them he left said first officer in a quandary of bewildering dissatisfaction.

It didn't improve matters that while rationally Spock knew the Ambassador's time aboard ship was limited, it nonetheless took him several attempts before he was also able to purge a completely illogical, but remarkably persistent, feeling of abandonment. After the connection they had forged in the last few days, his captain still chose to seek out the company of the older Vulcan in place of the younger one. Spock was troubled to realize the level of agitation that accompanied this idea. He was troubled, in fact, by the level of the emotional turmoil surrounding all of his thoughts when it came to Jim Kirk.

Meditation would likely have been wise, but he felt oddly restless, and the idea of forcing himself to the careful stillness required seemed somehow – counterproductive. Perhaps a visit to the exercise rooms or a walk through the Enterprise's gardens would serve. He set his feet in motion and let them carry him, and all the while his mind took him places much, much farther away.

Meanwhile, as Spock walked, the dinner he had spent such time considering was indeed progressing almost exactly as he had feared it would. In fact, as the night wore on, Jim found that he was more than enjoying the time he and the Ambassador were sharing; he was practically _reveling_ in it. Having been deprived early in life of a male mentor, he found he was utterly incapable of not taking advantage of having one at this moment. The fact that the mentor in question just happened to be the older version of his First was basically forgotten in his mad scramble to enjoy the unquestioning, nonjudgmental company he was being gifted with.

This time between them, they were both aware, was an unexpected boon, not to be easily forgotten or dismissed. Soon it would be reduced to subspace communications, distracted between-mission messages, and perhaps the occasional visit. The Ambassador knew this – had known this from the very beginning. He was not unaffected by it, but he was a pragmatic man, made so by nature and necessity. He knew that the universe was too big for Captain James T. Kirk to pass this way again for any great length of time, when he had his own, rather highly anticipated, life ahead of him still to live. And he was more than aware that there was another Vulcan on board, one who would remain long after he himself was gone, who so desperately needed this man's help in order to reach his truest understanding of himself, and his place in the universe.

But even knowing all this, he could not prevent himself from reaching for one final self-indulgent and completely unrepentant intimacy, before this all came to end. When he asked Jim Kirk to once more accept the touch of his thoughts in a meld, he did not do so lightly; a large part of his psyche, in fact, urged him to cautiously reconsider. It was a part that he chose to ignore. Perhaps it was merely his turn, he mused, to put aside the respectable, but confining mistress of logic – and do what felt right.

"Are you sure?" Jim asked him with a frown, the remains of their meal on the table between them. They had the observation deck to themselves – there were, Jim was discovering, many advantages to being a starship commander, and a general call sign under his signature for 'do not disturb' was just one of them. "The last time we tried this you left pieces of – you – me – whatever – behind up here," he gestured vaguely to his head, "and I have to admit, I'm not keen on repeating that experience."

"There is far more time at our disposal now," the older man said, shrugging curiously. "If you are uncomfortable, of course, I will not ask it of you. But if safety is your only concern, do not be troubled. It was my haste and my emotional distress during our first attempt, not lack of skill, which caused you such intense difficulty."

Jim didn't need to be told twice. Hell, even just a few days ago one of these melds had almost knocked him off his feet with the pure, raw intensity of it, the incredible feeling of being _inside_ the love this man bore for him. The idea of having that again – even for just an instant – was, in his estimation, worth almost any risk, any danger. And in any case, he wasn't the sort of person who turned away at the first sign of peril; Jim Kirk had always been, and would likely always be, a gambling man.

"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."

So they did. It was just as easy this time as it had been before. The first moment of aloneness, quickly overtaken with the strange dual feeling of the _other_ being there. The fragile but unbelievably strong connection of their minds holding them together – and before there had been purpose, there had been reasons, but now there was only the blissful feeling of kinship, and faith, and unreserved completeness.

The last time Jim could remember feeling this content was when he was five years old and his mother had spent the entire night excising the boogieman from underneath his bed. It had taken years before he'd understood that she couldn't protect him from all the terrible creatures in the night, but that hadn't stopped her trying. He'd been amazed at her dedication to him even then, her willingness to give of herself, and he was grateful and astonished to find that same selfless love once more waiting for him, in a man he barely knew and yet somehow knew too well.

_I would like to show you something now, provided you have no objection,_ the resonance of that voice drifted to him, somehow deeper and truer in this format then hearing it spoken out loud. He got the idea this was how the older man heard himself, a reflection of how he was represented in his own mind. _ It is not meant for you, but as a gift to my other self, when he is ready to receive it. You will understand when you observe what it is. Are you willing?_

Confusion and excitement raced through Jim, an almost embarrassing eagerness, but he was utterly untrained, and had no real idea how to answer. He'd never had to take an active role in either of the last two melds. How did one think words at another? The surreal sensation of attempting to imagine a mental mouth with which to communicate floated obscenely through his mind.

Amusement brushed against him faintly, and he couldn't help but boggle at the ease with which this Vulcan allowed him to see his emotions, when not a month ago he'd have sworn that Vulcans as a race had no emotions to speak of.

_Words are not completely necessary here, Jim. Much of what you are feeling is translated to me directly, a phenomenon that my other self will teach you to control in time. But for the purposes of my request, I believe I have your answer._

Jim agreed, and being quite used to instant gratification, he didn't appreciate this prevarication. He was impatient and made no effort to conceal that fact. So the man could feel most of what he was feeling? He envisioned the equivalent of mentally tapping his foot, in a 'get on with it' motion.

From the burst of humor that flowed back to him, he figured he got his message across.

_Very well, then._ A gentle tug, as though someone had a hold of his hand and was pulling him along, drifted strangely into Jim's mental landscape of thoughts. The sensation was unexpected enough that he resisted momentarily, trying to send his impression across the bridge of their minds.

_unknown/surprised/what/how?_

_Come,_ Spock told him firmly, tugging again, and Jim, realizing what this was now, gave in gracefully, following along with restrained exuberance.

Walking through the other's mind (walking wasn't quite accurate – but it was the closest expression he could think of for comparison) was a shock, and not at all what he was expecting. When Jim had observed the Ambassador removing memories from his own mind, that landscape had seemed one-dimensional, unstructured, and flat, but teeming with color and vibrancy, all jumbled together haphazardly, layered atop each other like a whirlpool of psychic energy. Spock, on the other hand, was all shades – white, black, and gray, and the corridors of his thoughts were like labyrinths, with an endless number of doors leading into other labyrinths, each of them locked with complex sets of symbols. The sense of order and tidiness was undeniable, in stark contrast to the Human's mind – it reminded Jim, of all things, of an enormously complex three-dimensional chess set.

They approached a door – which he figured was really just his mind filling in the visual blanks here, as he doubted Spock actually had doors in his brain, or then again, maybe he did – and walked through it. On the other side, the things that Jim had seen as missing – color, vibrancy, life, _feeling_ – from Spock's mind were made obvious, in startling abundance. Thoughts or memories, or whatever they were, swirled in a sluggishly repeating rhythm, with no seeming beginning or end. If his own thoughts had been a whirlpool, this was a carefully parsed out thundercloud, given purpose and energy and definition by the Ambassador's powerful mind.

He tried to send his puzzlement, like sending a literal question mark in Spock's direction.

_These memories are ones I have deliberately placed outside the normal Vulcan practice of carefully ordered thinking. I would like to give them to you now, to hold in trust, for my other self. I have no doubt that one day, perhaps soon, he will come to you for your thoughts in the same manner that we are now sharing. When that time comes, it will be up to you when or if you reveal the presence of this receptacle in your mind._

Jim looked again at the teeming mass of memories, trying to pick out the common thread that connected them, but they moved too fluidly for him to get a grasp on them. He needed more information. He sent greater waves of impatience and continuing puzzlement.

_These are memories that your Spock will never have – experiences that are now denied him. They are ones I would gladly share, but I believe he will find them more palatable coming from someone he trusts. Coming from you. _

There was a very small pause, almost hesitant, definitely wistful, and then:

_These are the strongest memories I have of my mother._

His mother. _Amanda_. It had never occurred to Jim before, but this Spock had lived a lifetime with her, with a woman who was now dead in this world. And having loved her and let her go long ago, he was willing to pass that lifetime on – to her son from another universe, who would never get to live those moments with her.

It was a priceless gift. And Jim had no doubt that the Ambassador's caution was more than justified – there was no way Spock was ready for this, yet. He might be at peace with himself and with his grief, and in time he might speak of her more freely or be willing to hear her spoken of in turn. Their conversation last night came to mind, the joyful but quiet cast to it, the moments his First had shared with him. But to experience the life he'd never have with her, hear her laugh, and smile, and cry, to see her love, and _live_ –

He wasn't ready. Jim wasn't sure he'd ever be ready. But he would gladly, more than gladly, hold these memories locked away inside him, until the day he thought he was.

_Think carefully before you give me your answer, _the other chastised gently at his immediate excitement._ What I am proposing is no simple thing. I would be giving you a very small portion of my Katra – what a Human might call a soul. It is not a decision to be made lightly for either of us. _

But the Ambassador would not have offered if he hadn't already made up his mind – and Jim knew what his answer would be the moment he'd discovered the source of all that color, that intensity.

_Yes_, he thought firmly, distinctly and clearly. It occurred to him that he was getting the hang of this. _Yes_. _Please. Yes._

Like Jim, Spock did not need to be told twice. What followed was a very strange set of actions and corresponding feelings. He watched the other sort of withdraw them both back through the doorway hovering at their backs, and then – he seemed to move that door, somehow, away from himself, and further toward Jim. It didn't take a great deal of time, but neither was it quickly done. Eventually there was a sense of displacement, and then somewhere in the back of the Human's mind some mechanism or switch or hollow place was replaced with a sensation of – fullness, togetherness, alien matter that quickly became integrated, familiar. It was like a tree had been planted, as though he could feel the roots of the memory cache being attached in places where there had been nothing before. He realized this was not only a gift for the younger Spock, but for him also. Somewhere, subliminally, he could feel a part of his friend hovering in him, dormant, hidden, miniscule, but most definitely _there._

_Tell him of this, when you believe the time is right. _As if from a great distance, Jim heard himself addressed quietly by the other._ He will know how to access it when you are in the meld, if you show him it is there._

He nodded, and hoped his agreement was made clear.

The process seemed to drain something out of Spock, momentarily, and in the floating silence that followed, they merely existed together, side-by-side – but not as one. Jim got the feeling that sharing space as _one_ was something different, not meant for casual contact; something much more intimate than a meld. If there was something that could be called more intimate than a meld.

In the quiet, Spock's tightly guarded labyrinth of thoughts loosened just a little, and suddenly Jim could feel more memories, further memories, lurking somewhere nearby. Instantly intrigued, he focused on them. Though some part of him screamed that this was what had gotten him in trouble in the first place not weeks ago, still he yearned toward them, his innate curiosity driving him onward. Like liquid want, he felt himself flowing in their direction with the ease of someone used to making unfortunate impulsive decisions. He converged on the nearest one, a freeze-frame in time, just a fleeting image, of a man with a quicksilver smile, and gentle eyes, and a depth of caring wrapped over a tritanium core of determination. And Jim thrilled to see it, soaking up the entire aspect of him, every detail, thinking, _that's him, that other Kirk, that other person that Spock knew and loved, who lived the life I should have had, that's _me_ –_

He was yanked backward abruptly, separated from the flow of images as they cut off into darkness, and bereft, he mourned their loss, the loss of knowing that other man, that other half of him that this Spock had known.

_Forgive me_, came the thought, apologetic but firm_. Those memories will not benefit you. Allow me to remind you of the difficulty we encountered after a similar issue on Delta Vega. And I have no wish to 'spoil your fun' by allowing you to observe events that may still come to pass. I have discovered in my travels that people who too often know the outcome of events find themselves tiring of them, and I would not wish you to lose the fascination with life that so defines you, James Kirk._

He pictured himself sniffing in haughty disdain, completely unconcerned and unaffected by this swift denial. Certainly he tried to conceal that fact that he was inwardly sulking at having his fun cut short.

The Ambassador gave his frowning mental construct a gentle prod, like a condescending pat on the shoulder. _Trust me, old friend. I would not deny you if it were not important._

And he did. Trust this Spock. Completely, which made no sense, really. They barely knew each other, but there it was, all the same. He couldn't quite boast the same with the younger version, but they were getting there, in leaps both great and small. Soon he doubted he'd even be able to tell that he'd ever been more comfortable with the older Vulcan than the younger one. When that day came, Jim knew he'd be able to trust his First just as implicitly as he did the Ambassador.

_One day, soon, I hope you shall,_ the voice said distractedly, hearing this thought, and Jim could feel him checking over everything in their minds, making certain that the storage compartment of memories was safely blocked away, and that everything else between them was disconnected and independent. He was obviously preparing for them to separate, and the thought made Jim curl in unexpected sadness. It was very strange, as a Human, to crave an experience that was so outside the realm of his species.

_You need one another, _Spock commented, speeding the process of their division. The feeling of co-existing lightened, until he could actually feel his physical body again._ You always have. _

And if he hadn't been so caught up in that voice, if he'd perhaps been paying more attention to that great mind running through its careful checklist of safety measures (as he probably should, seeing as it was his brain at stake), he might not have heard the faint whisper that echoed underneath that, like the faintest of shadows, hardly even there, barely discernable from the night:_ I have always needed you, T'hy'la…_

He'd heard that word before, hadn't he? The Ambassador had called him that or something similar, the last time they'd spoken in this way…

"T'hy'la?" As though separated from himself, he heard the word issue from his own mouth, his physical mouth, and yet the shaping of it felt unreal to him. He didn't speak Vulcan. His attempt at pronunciation should have been slurred beyond understanding, absurd or laughable, but it appeared with perfect intonation, in his own even, questioning timbre.

A gasp from the doorway knocked him back into his physical body like a solid blow.

He pulled away (slowly, because hell, that had been the problem in the first damn place) from the older man's reaching hand, felt the other also distancing himself, properly closing down the parts of their minds that had moments ago been connected. Jim waited until the process was finished before he turned, thinking that surely life could not be so terribly, unbelievably perverse as to have the one person who he absolutely did not want to see this – seeing this. But of course, life had always been that perverse, and it seemed there was no avoiding that. For the second time this week, completely unexpectedly, Spock (the Younger) stood staring at him from a doorway where he really should not have been standing.

Apparently his first officer didn't believe in 'do not disturb' signs, as least not when it came to his captain. He wondered how long he'd been standing there. From the look on his face, definitely long _enough_ – and probably much, much longer than that.

Jim forced his tongue out from behind his teeth in a futile attempt to salvage this bizarre situation. "Um. I mean. Hey, Spock. Fancy – seeing you here. We were just, ah, discussing the merits of the Vulcan…" _telepathic tendencies, emotional landscape, concept of 'oneness', Katras,_ "…language. I take it from your reaction that I got the pronunciation right. T'hy'la sounds like a – like a pretty interesting word. What does it mean?"

He thought he had a fairly good idea what it meant, actually, but maybe he was wrong. Maybe none of this was quite as bad as it seemed, and he tried not to feel as though his First had just walked in on him mentally cheating on him (okay, on their future potential telepathic relationship – whatever) with… well, him. Because it wasn't like that. At all.

Well, maybe it was a little bit like that. But not like _that_, that. Really.

"It is a word from our ancient culture," the Ambassador answered him, as calmly as though there was not a really, seriously pissed-off Vulcan standing in the doorway looking like he couldn't decide whether he wanted to kill his older self, his captain, or both of them to save himself the trouble of choosing. "One I will be teaching to the younger generation to keep its rich and varied history alive. It is a word without context in the Human language – rather, a word with too much context. It has multiple meanings, but the essential three are this: friend, brother, and lover. It need not mean all of them, but they are inextricably woven together in our cultural understanding of the concept."

Jim stared at him. "And you think that kind of label belongs –" _to me_, he wanted to say, but. Well. His First was still standing there, and getting deadlier by the moment. "Er. Belongs – among the younger generation of the Vulcan refugees?"

"Of course. It is one of our most sacred beliefs, the resonance of our Katras, our living spirits. Two individuals who find themselves with such a connection are considered deeply blessed among the Vulcan people. It is a remarkably personal relationship that –"

"You overstep yourself," the shadow in the doorway said, more frightening in his lack of movement than another person might be shaking in rage. Jim tried not to move. Maybe if he stayed absolutely still the other two Vulcans might forget he was there. For once in his life, he thought he'd be more than completely content to be absolutely ignored.

"No, Spock. I only teach Jim what should have fallen to you if not for the machinations of a deranged Romulan. Nero took our people from us; he took our mother from you. I will not let him take this. Can you understand that? I will show him these things so that, when the time comes, he will have the necessary grounding of knowledge to meet you halfway."

"That is my decision," the coil of malevolence whispered, savage heat igniting in the air between them. Jim could never remember seeing such menace incased in such brutal stillness. Even when Spock had given in to violence on the bridge, that had been sharp, uncontrolled, and momentary – this was something altogether different. This made the hairs on the back of Jim's neck stand up sharply.

"I will not allow you to interfere in these possibilities," his First rasped, contained only by the iron shackles of his will, unraveling even as the captain watched. "To touch what is not yours to lay hands on, to have what you say should be mine –"

"Hold up. Wait," Jim said. Okay, maybe not _completely_ all right with being ignored. "Not to rain on anyone's parade, but I _am_ still in the room here. I'll decide for myself what relationships, telepathic or otherwise, I want to pursue, thank you very much." Both of them looked at him, one in agreement and one in frustrated impotence, and Jim, ignoring the fact that a very real potential for danger was bubbling here, shook his fingers at them.

"Look, this isn't some – some ridiculous contest to see who gets to play mental musical chairs with me. I chose to be here of my own free will, not because someone wanted to _teach_ me something, but because I wanted to know. Now I know. And I'm grateful for it." And he was. More than either Spock might ever be made aware of, he was grateful, even if for this one precious week of his life, to have known such unconditional acceptance.

But he couldn't say that. He got the feeling that if he did, those iron shackles might buckle more than just a little. So instead he put the most smarmy, overbearing expression of smugness he had in his arsenal on his face, one he knew sent Bones right through the roof on any given occasion, and, to top it off, spread his hands in a hopeless gesture of comical befuddlement.

Obviously, in the absence of the truth, a little bluffing and a lot of willful distraction was called for. And he'd always had a _great_ poker face.

"This is all getting a bit dramatic, don't you agree? I mean, I realize I'm a prize catch and that both of you are just dying to get your hands on me, but there's no reason for drastic action here. There's enough of me to go around, isn't there? Share and share alike, you know!" He shot them both a winning, slightly manic smile, saw two sets of eyes close in identical expressions of painful exasperation, and had to stifle a hysterical bleat of laughter. This was ridiculous. Just ridiculous. He'd wake up tomorrow morning and it would all have been a dream.

His First opened his eyes long before the Ambassador. "I apologize, Captain. I should not have entered the deck without first – without alerting one of you. I attempted to do so through the comm system; when no one responded, I became concerned. But my concern was obviously unfounded. I apologize for disturbing you. I was – obviously out of line."

"Ah Spock, don't let anyone ever tell you that falling for the famous Kirk charm is in any way out of line." Far from being reassured, this only seemed to further agitate the Vulcan. Jim watched, in elevated unease, as he took a step backwards as though his captain had just dealt him a debilitating blow.

_Sorry Spock, it's that foot to mouth thing; it gets me every time…_

Spock seemed to pull some semblance of control back around his person. "Please ignore my interruption, Captain. I had no right to – I will leave you to – Goodnight."

And before Jim could say anything at all – tell him he was joking, say he was sorry for putting that look of helpless anger on his face, remind him that a 'do not disturb' wasn't written in 'fleet regs. anywhere – the younger man was gone, out the door and into the corridor, faster than Jim could ever recall seeing another person move.

As the door slid shut behind Spock, Jim turned to regard the older Vulcan seated calmly across from him. Though nothing would have suggested it in the still demeanor turned toward him, Jim had a very clear impression of a feeling of deep-seated satisfaction. Something, some realization, clicked into place.

"You did that to him on purpose," he accused, not as sure as his voice sounded, but willing to bet money on it with his intuition tingling at him so strongly. He'd long ago discovered that one of the quickest ways to finding answers was to make up his own, thereby forcing other people to defend their positions to prove him wrong.

"If by that you mean I deliberately chose this venue to conduct our conversation in, you would be correct. But our two timelines are divergent now, Jim. Surely you cannot think I could possibly predict his coming here." The eyes, though solemn, positively laughed at him.

"You can predict his behavior based on familiarity with your own."

The regal head tilted in an acknowledgement, and the silent laughter didn't dim. "Perhaps." Jim wondered at his being able to see through the man so clearly. He wondered if touching the other's mind twice in so short a period had somehow conveyed a familiarity he'd previously lacked. He wished it had conveyed more than just familiarity, because he found there was still something here that he was completely in the dark about, and he didn't like it at all.

"I don't understand you," he said, feeling his irritation at the Ambassador's continued meddling rising up unexpectedly. "You've been banking on this from the start, throwing us together in as many ways as you possibly can, trying to – what? Stir up his emotions? Undermine his ability to control? That seems cruel, and I wouldn't have expected it of you. I don't get what you're hoping to gain from this."

The twinkle had disappeared from that aged face as Jim went on, and some obscure part of the captain was sorry for that, but the rest of him was too frustrated to care. He wanted answers. He was willing to do what he had to, to get them.

They regarded one another in tense silence, the Human expectant and the Ambassador once more unreadable. That strange sensation of transparent familiarity was gone, as though it had never been. Maybe it hadn't; maybe Jim had imagined it.

"When I was informed that the Enterprise would be given the task of transporting us to the new colony," the older man said at last, "the absolute incongruity of seeing you again so soon after our last extraordinary encounter was – staggering, to say the least. It seemed to me that, in many ways, fate had set our paths on a line of convergence; that I was being given an unprecedented opportunity to alter the trajectory of this universe, the new direction it was given by Nero's actions."

"I don't believe in fate," Jim reminded him sharply, exasperated.

"So you have told me. And yet, would you not say that there are many things that have shifted for you in the course of this mission? That several concepts you did not believe in have become – unexpectedly real, or resulted in unforeseen changes in you?"

_Oh, that was dirty pool,_ Jim thought sourly. It was bad form to confront a James Kirk verbal challenge with the simple, uncomplicated, unvarnished truth. Like cheating or something.

"But if you cannot believe, then you must at least allow that in that moment, _I_ believed – and made a decision to act on that belief. What seems cruel to you is a necessary step on the difficult road that I have laid before you and my younger self. But if you can only walk that road together, I know that what awaits you at the end will be something incredible, beyond anything you can yet understand."

"Is this your version of dangling the carrot in front of the horse? Because if so, I should point out that I really don't like carrots that much."

Ignoring him, Spock continued. "In truth, when I undertook this task, I had hoped that it would not require such drastic action to effect the changes I wished. I see now that my initial assumption of relative ease was perhaps somewhat – optimistic. I can only hope that in time my counterpart, as with certain others involved, will find it in themselves to forgive me."

The worst part for Jim, listening to him, was that he could understand, intimately, what the older man was going through, the complete sense of isolation when you _know_ that what you're doing it right – and everyone else stands pitted against you. That was a reoccurring problem for Jim, and one he had the greatest sympathy for, which was unfortunate, because he didn't actually want to have sympathy right at that moment. He didn't want to feel the anger give way to compassion and understanding. Too bad what he wanted never seemed to make a damn bit of difference.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. Sometimes he really wished his life, or at least the people in his life, were just a tiny bit less complicated.

"Well if you're waiting on my forgiveness too – you have it," he said tiredly. "Not that I think you need it. Or that it would stop you, if you didn't have it. But just so we're clear – I happen to think I'm more than old enough to pick my own friends, thank you very much."

The Ambassador didn't – quite – sigh. "If friendship was the only end result I was concerned with Jim, I need not have interfered at all. That much, at least, I believe you had well in hand."

Jim fought back the urge to roll his eyes, clenching them tightly shut instead, thinking. He wondered if what he was about to say next would sound as crazy out loud as it did in his head.

"I think I should go after him," Jim announced, and yes, it did indeed sound just as insane outwardly as it had inwardly. Go after Spock? What, and be torn to pieces for his efforts, having gotten in the way of the man's anger for a _second_ time? But all he could see was the expression that had rested, so briefly, on those exotically handsome, alien features: a look of such confused, uncertain anguish that it made Jim ache to even think about the fact that he'd put it there.

"I believe you should allow him time to logically assess his feelings on this matter."

"Logically assess his feelings?" Jim asked incredulously. "Isn't that like – a contradiction in terms?"

"Not in this case. Believe me, Jim, I have, as you would say, 'been in his shoes'. I not only know what he is going through; I know his probable reactions to this. Allow him time to come to his own conclusions. Spock's hand cannot be forced – only taken when he offers it."

"Christ, would you stop talking about him like he's a Hallmark card? If you're trying to convince me that I should do my best to be here for him, well sure – here I am. If he comes to me, I'll know what to do. I think. But aside from that, let's not kid ourselves. You and he _are_ different. You can't know for certain that he'll choose that kind of relationship and you know it. And that's not even taking into account my own reactions here."

"Your reactions are irrelevant."

"What?" Jim squawked, staring in amazement at this man he thought he knew. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You have a great capacity for love, James Kirk, though it must be the greatest irony of this strange universe that a Vulcan should be the first to note it," the Ambassador said, reaching out and touching a thumb to his cheek, which was slowly darkening with an embarrassed flush. "It is what made you great before, and it will make you great again. I believe that your depth of love for this ship, her crew, and your journey through these endless stars, will see you through a hundred adventures or more. There are dreams out there that await you, beyond your wildest imaginings. I tell you your reactions to him are irrelevant because I know that no matter what conclusions you come to, you would never turn him blindly away, without consideration. That cruelty is not within you. Whatever might become of your relationship with Spock, I do know this: it will never be one without that depth of caring that makes you the man that you are."

Such unwavering, unshakable faith. Jim felt a lump in his throat that seemed to choke the breath from his lungs, driving more blood into his cheeks. And it was embarrassing, but it was the height of ego too, of personal triumph, to hear someone speak about him that way, to know from the inside out that this was the unalterable truth of this man's regard. This Spock had such belief in him that it made Jim very, very afraid that somehow, in some terrible way, he would fail to live up to it.

He took a deep breath, and hated himself a little for saying what he did next, but there was too much doubt in him not to; too much history.

"Three small instances of contact does not a lifelong acquaintance make. You don't, you _can't_, know all the inner workings of my mind. I'm pretty sure even I'm ignorant to some of them. And the Jim Kirk you knew, who wore my face… You've already told me there are no guarantees. You have no certainty. So how can you tell me that something as – as ephemeral as a 'capacity to love,'" he sneered with just the right amount of haughty disdain to convey what he thought of that, "still exists in me, in the here and now?"

Spock smiled, a small quirk at the corner of his lips only, but it was a smile nonetheless, and it was the kindest and sweetest expression Jim could ever remember seeing turned in his direction. Not even his mother, who loved him even despite his faults, had ever looked at him with such pure and untarnished devotion. He tried to wrap his mind around such a look appearing on a species whose face historically showed nothing but cold impassivity.

"In another life, you took a brittle, ostracized, rigid son of Vulcan and showed him what total acceptance could be like. What a friendship of that nature, and that quality, could do to such a one as he. And in time, he too learned to embody those things, to be those things, without reservation, without guilt or prejudice, and without shame." He leaned forward, and Jim found himself matching him for distance, until all he could see were the bright, intelligent eyes staring into his so raptly, until he felt nearly consumed by the great feeling seething so silently there.

"A man that could do those things," Spock said, "who could so shake the foundations of a person with the force of his personality alone – that man could not be changed so greatly that he would lose something as intrinsic to him as a love of life. You are that man, James Kirk. Or, if you are not at this moment, you will be again. I have great faith in you."

"I know you do," Jim muttered, sighing. "That's what worries me."

It was the first time he ever heard a Vulcan chuckle – but he hoped it certainly wasn't to be the last.

~*~

First officer Spock could not remember ever stalking along the corridors of this ship before, but if a Vulcan could be said to stalk, surely that was what he was doing.

A confusing whirlpool of thoughts and unacknowledged feelings dogged his steps, growing more pronounced, not less, as he distanced himself from the scene on the observation deck.

So. So. He had been right to wonder; his concern about the nature of his older self's interference had been true. T'hy'la. It was a word that existed mostly in historical context, with only a handful of his people ever finding something approaching it. That kind of atypical, unprecedented, unconditional rapport was anathema to most Vulcans. To receive it was, of course, a blessed gift, but to give it took a particular character of personality, usually quite an illogical character, and so it often fell only to the Vulcans who sought relationships outside their race. And Vulcan had been so insular; in the six billion inhabitants of his world only a fraction, perhaps as low as ten thousand or as high as one hundred thousand, could say they had ever experienced such a coveted bond –

But that number would be much smaller now, he realized, coming to an abrupt halt. There were no longer six billion Vulcans with which to judge that number against. It was conceivable that his older self's prediction that he alone would have to uphold the concept of T'hy'la would prove more than accurate. Ten thousand Vulcans, only half of whom were at an age where racial perpetuation would be possible; all that remained of his people. What wouldn't any of them give to have such a gift as T'hy'la?

What wouldn't he give?

"Spock."

Spock closed his eyes, beginning to understand anew how Humans could personify the universe as being 'out to get them' – a conclusion usually arrived at when one calamity after another was heaped atop a person in quick succession. That was what this felt like.

"Are you all right?"

"Nyota," he said, turning. She was looking at him with an openly imploring look of concern. He couldn't bear the sight of it, had to close his eyes, because his own wants were not the only ones to consider here, his was not the only pain at hand. There was this woman to think about, this beautiful woman who'd been his friend, who looked at him with such wary, heart-felt concern, and who loved him, he knew, with the carefree spirit of someone quite unused to guarding themself from heartbreak.

Jim would not look at him so. His captain had experienced a depth of pain Spock was only beginning to understand, and their loneliness was like a bridge to understanding, a bridge built of their shared experiences, and of experiences they had yet to share, with such potential for greater, and deeper, and _more_.

This was an impossible decision; how could he be expected to make it? How could his future self so easily do this to him? It seemed needlessly callous to show him these possibilities, this unforeseen contingency, and then walk away, completely unrepentant, leaving Spock floundering to determine the new and uncertain directions of his life.

Or perhaps he meant to determine them for him. Perhaps it was worse than it seemed, and his counterpart thought to have that, have Jim, for himself. Obviously his age would preclude certain aspects of the relationship, but for a Vulcan, the ultimate connection lay in the realm of the mental, the physical being only a conduit to those depths.

For Spock this was not so; being quite a young hybrid, he had no recourse but to satisfy the physical needs in the same way as his Human colleagues. In the same way as James Kirk.

He found, quite disconcertingly, that the thought of satisfying those needs with his captain, with Jim, who brought such confusing passion and tremendous understanding to his life, was a hopelessly compelling one.

_Enough! That does not matter now!_ So he, Spock, would need, and doubtless want, far more from the relationship of T'hy'la than another might require, but for his older self, perhaps those needs were not the same. Perhaps even a man such as James Kirk would be satisfied with a platonic relationship of that nature, provided his emotional needs were more than met.

The thought of his older self giving his captain such caring, but devoid of the essential physical aspects of Human joining, was repellent, even repugnant. The thought of the Ambassador preventing Jim from reaching the heights of what a truly complete Vulcan rapport – physical, emotional, and spiritual – could be, filled Spock with an unexpected, unaccountable, and unavoidable rage.

It was not right. It could not, logically, be allowed to happen. That Spock did not belong in this timeline; he had no right to make the kind of claim he was attempting to, he could not do this so blithely to his younger self and get away with it.

He would stop him. And if the Ambassador thought for one moment that his younger counterpart would allow this other, this interloper, to step between him and his captain, his future T'hy'la, and prevent him from having what should be his; by rights, what would be _his alone_ -

_The James Kirk of this timeline is mine,_ he thought, and the last time he could recall being this angry he'd almost choked the life out of the very man he was now fighting to keep. And he grit his teeth as instinctive, primal fury raced through him, possessiveness like he'd never experienced, and thought, _this Jim is mine, and you cannot have him, and if you try I shall put you in your place as the meddling imposter that you are –_

"Spock!"

He snapped back to the present, seeing at last the look of shocked disbelief in Nyota's eyes, the questions and even, yes, some fear as she looked at him, no doubt remembering the last time he'd been angry and what had resulted.

_I frighten her_, he realized, sickened. _Humans are so fragile and Vulcans so terribly different. If I lost control, even for an instant, I might truly break her –_

"Spock, what on Earth –"

_We are not on Earth_, he thought despairingly. _We are not on Earth and I am not Human, and I cannot think of how to explain what is so intrinsically and inescapably Vulcan to you, cannot even begin to describe this wanting, this need, for something so foreign, and so overwhelming, and so precious_ –

"Nyota, I –"

She reached for him then, as she'd rarely done before, respecting always his boundaries, as he'd ever given her respect for her needs. And as she reached, he found he could not bear the thought of having his confusion, his turmoil, exposed to anyone, not even she who'd been such a friend to him the last year, and more in this final month –

He pulled away. Pulled away as he never had before, stepping back, stepping away from her, and he could hardly stand the shame of her slender, open fingers stretched toward him, offering a solace he didn't dare take, a comfort he didn't want.

They stared at each other, separated by a span of meters, but further apart than the Enterprise and Earth, far behind her: light years between them.

Spock wished, with the perfect illogic of all Humans wishing for things that cannot be, that the process of change, of self-discovery and self-realization, of growth, were not so inherently, inexplicably painful, nor so manifestly difficult.

"Spock," Nyota said at last, helplessly, lowering her hand. "Tell me what I can do. Tell me what you need."

"I do not know," Spock said, closing his eyes to contain his confusion and guilt. "Time. I need – time."

_I need time to stand still long enough that I might divine what is happening to me. Long enough to discover the roots of these feelings, this need, and this desire that so fills me. Long enough to decide, for myself, free of the influence of other cares and considerations, free of the grip of my own emotions – what I intend to do about this._

"All right," she said quietly. "Time." Time she could give him. Time, it seemed, was something she had no choice but to give him.

End Chapter Eight.

A/N: That was wayyyy longer than I intended. This was the chapter from hell, by the way. It hated me from the word 'go', and I had to beat it into submission with a whip (wow, that sounded really kind of kinky, didn't it?). So I hope you liked the result. :-) Thanks again to everyone for your continued support!


	9. Chapter 9

A/N: You guys are great; I'm unbelievably happy with the reception this story is getting, and some of the remarkably detailed comments being posted about it. Thank you for taking the trouble of letting me know what you think!

~*~

Breaking Points

Chapter Nine

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Conflagration.

~*~

The next morning proved to be as bad as Jim had feared it might.

Spock was a wall of ice at his station, unfortunately positioned behind the command seat (leaving the captain feeling as though he ought to hunch his shoulders to avoid an incoming attack), and he was as correct and remote as any Vulcan while being twice as demanding. He gave no indication that he was angry with Jim particularly, but that might have had more to do with the fact that he barely looked at him twice the entire shift. And who knew Vulcans could be so successfully passive aggressive?

He tried a few times to engage his First in conversation, even just conversation between a captain and his first officer, but the other man was so rigidly correct and succinct that any opportunity for more was quickly snuffed out. His attempts went something like:

"Mr. Spock, are all departments ready to begin disembarking our passengers upon arrival?"

"Yes, sir."

"All supply lists and passenger manifests accounted for?"

"Yes, sir."

"Have we received orders for our next mission assignment?"

"Yes, sir."

He considered continuing in that vein, something along the lines of, _was it Colonel Mustard, in the library, with the candlestick… _just to see if the 'yes, sir' was an involuntary response when he was busy playing super-Vulcan, or if he was being irritating on purpose.

He thought better of it at the last minute, figuring that the last thing he needed was another blowout on the bridge with his second in command.

He told a joke or two to lighten up the atmosphere, but his sense of humor, misplaced even at the best of times, fell more than flat today. He managed to cajole Sulu into a conversation about the merits of fencing versus a good old-fashioned fistfight, but that gambit died a natural death in short order.

Jim was almost desperate enough to com Bones for a quick chat, but that had the potential to go very, very right, or disastrously wrong, depending on the doctor's mood and what Jim had done to piss him off lately. Remembering their conversation yesterday afternoon, he thought he might have done plenty.

"Mr. Sulu, what's our estimated arrival time for the colony?"

"2100 ship's time, sir."

"Thank you."

God, this shift was interminable. Would it never end? Not that he didn't have work he could be doing, but there were only so many times he could listen to the tiny acknowledgements of a datapad in the oppressive silence and not start to feel like he was stuck in a padded cell somewhere. Restlessness was the silent killer – for Jim anyway.

The other half of his agitation was less easily explained than an uncomfortable bridge shift. Jim hadn't always felt that Starfleet was the right niche to try and fit into, but once there, he knew that command was the only way for him. He'd been born with the ability to make snap judgments, judgments that usually managed to land him on his feet (if a bit bruised and bloody). What he was discovering was that other parts of command – paperwork, the difficulties of formality, having to actually follow regs. instead of flying in the face of them – were not as easily reconciled to his new position as the rest of it. In particular, he was finding that the idea of a mission coming to an end, a mission he'd spent every minute enjoying and reaping the benefits of, did not sit at all well with him.

He found that as they drew closer to their passenger's destination, the less and less eager he was to actually reach it, as it would mean giving up one of those very passengers, a man who had touched Jim's life in a unforgettable and extraordinary way. Goodbyes were never fun, but this one would be harder than most. It wouldn't be forever, and he'd come through it with the same dogged determination that made him command material, but it would be difficult and it would be – bleak.

And that line of thinking was depressing, and probably not helping him get through the day. Resolved not to borrow trouble, he sought out something randomly amusing to cheer him up.

"Chekov, when's your birthday?" Jim asked, apropos of nothing.

"I – my, my birthday, sir?" The ensign gave him a look of bewildered consternation at being asked a question he clearly didn't have the answer to on the tip of his tongue. Math equations and scientific techno-babble the kid could do – he was a prodigy, after all – but in the give and take of regular Human conversation, he rivaled Spock for ineptitude.

"Yeah, your birthday. That day of the year we sometimes use to celebrate someone getting older, which I will be providing alcohol at, even though you might not be old enough to drink. Don't tell Starfleet command or they'll get angry with me."

"It is not for several months yet, sir."

"Dammit. Sulu, when's yours?"

"Had mine six weeks ago, Captain."

"For love of – Uhura, what about –" she gave him a look bordering on mutinous, and he quickly shifted gears. "I mean, Spock. Er. Do you even celebrate birthdays?"

"No, sir."

"Something we'll have to fix at the earliest possible convenience," Jim muttered, and wasn't surprised that there was no response. At least he'd proved that super-Vulcans had more than one response in their verbal arsenal.

_All right,_ he thought, _enough of this. I'm the only person allowed to sulk on the bridge of the Enterprise, and I don't appreciate some moody Vulcan horning in on my territory._

He waited until ten minutes to shift end, a feat he thought he deserved a medal for as he might have given himself an ulcer sitting still for that entire time. Then he waited five more minutes, to make sure that everyone seemed to be packing it in for the day, his First included. Then he stood up decisively, stepped up to Spock's station, and said, in a very quiet, but precise voice, "Mr. Spock, come with me please."

He didn't wait to see the look the Vulcan leveled at his back, but he could feel the point in the middle of his shoulder blades where it landed. He might have lost a little skin there. Angry? Spock? Not a chance.

"Mr. Sulu, you have the conn; turn it over to beta shift at your convenience."

Sulu hesitated only a moment before calling an acknowledgement after him, but Jim was already through the briefing room doors, with Spock just a step behind him. Maybe the bridge was a bad place for a blowout, and maybe the room right next to the bridge wasn't much better (though it was soundproofed, the better for Spock to murder him with no one the wiser) but Jim fully intended to see this resolved. He gave the Ambassador's advice about waiting some cursory consideration, then scrapped it. He just didn't have a lot of patience in him when it came to his personal affairs. The man should know better than to suggest a plan that required copious amounts of it.

The doors swished shut behind them, and the quality of the momentary absence of ambient sound gave Jim the impression of being stalked by an irate hunting cat. Deadly predators, Vulcans.

"Computer, privacy lock briefing room doors, Captain's Authorization Code four-eight-alpha-seven-two."

The mandatory beep-beep of acknowledgement seemed particularly loud in the silence.

"All right, that's it," he said firmly, rounding on the Vulcan at his back. Spock stared at him with such a look of unimpressed disdain that Jim could actually feel his blood pressure, already unnaturally high, soar higher. "I'm not spending another day like _that_ on the bridge. Obviously you and I have some unresolved issues here. So go on; out with it."

"Do you have an official complaint about my behavior during shift today, Captain?"

"Of course not. The day you renege of your duties is the day I eat my hat. And no, I don't actually own a hat, so don't even go there. Shift's as good as over Spock, so I'm not talking to my first officer here; I'm talking to my friend. You do remember that we were working on being friends, don't you? Well, friends tell other friends what they've done to piss each other off, so that amends can be made. Oftentimes over vast quantities of alcohol."

"Your preoccupation with alcohol is unseemly. And Vulcans do not hold to the same concept of friendship as Humans."

"No shit, really? I never would have guessed that after being given a telepathic play-by-play on Vulcan relationships from our mutual acquaintance –"

"I have no interest in hearing of your forays into Vulcan telepathic practices," Spock interrupted coldly. "If that was your purpose in requesting my presence, I will take my leave now."

"Oh no you don't. You're not leaving this room until we've worked this out – whatever the hell this is."

"Is that an order, _sir_?"

"It's an order if that's what it takes to make you sit your irritating ass down and talk to me, dammit!"

Spock sat, looking sullen in a stoic, disinterested sort of way. Jim wondered how he managed to pull that off. It was a neat trick, appearing at once annoyed and then as though he didn't care enough to actually be annoyed.

"Do all Vulcans get training in how to be insanely exasperating, or is that just particular to you? To both of you."

Rightly identifying this as a rhetorical question, Spock didn't deign to answer.

"Spock, would you stop being so – so _stubborn_ for one minute and just _talk to me_? It can't be that hard. Tell me what happened last night that bothered you so much."

"I do not experience 'bother' in the way that you imply. I have no opinion of any kind on the events of last night."

"I thought Vulcans weren't allowed to lie."

"I believe my counterpart has more than disproved the notion of Vulcan innate truthfulness."

Ignoring the implications of that snide statement, Jim pressed, "so you admit that you're lying!"

"I admit to nothing. I merely offer proven information that invalidates your statement."

"Spock, it's too damned late in the day for a gigantic discussion on circular logic. Obviously something's pissed you off, something that changed between yesterday and today. There are only so many hours between bridge shifts, so I'm willing to bet this change is pretty much a direct result of what you saw on the observation deck. Which brings us back to last night and what you got an inadvertent earful of. I don't get all the dynamics, but I understand I've overstepped some line here, that I've somehow seriously offended you. Tell me how to fix it, and I will."

"Captain," Spock began, then paused, and Jim could see that strict Vulcan rigidity soften just slightly, the perfect control relax a fraction. He took that for the major victory it was. "Jim. Your conclusions are eminently logical, given your observation of the given situation. And while your concern is appreciated, I am afraid this is not an issue I can accept your assistance with. I believe only personal reflection can give me the answers that I am searching for."

"And in the meantime we get to work bridge shifts in sub zero temperature? I don't think so. I never thought I'd say this, but talking it out seems like our best option. You're not allowed to repeat that, by the way; Bones would have kittens. So, anyway, hit me with it. Talk."

"It is not as simple to explain as you imply. It is a deeply personal thing, a singularly Vulcan issue, and a concept no Human could fully understand. I am asking you to accept that answer."

"I can't, Spock," Jim admitted tiredly, running a distracted hand through his hair. "Today was the worst day of my command I've experienced so far, and you know why? Because I couldn't stand the fact that you and I were at odds. How screwed up is that? And it took pretty much running my mouth non-stop here, just for me to say that, so… if you value this open and emotionally present Jim Kirk, don't shut me out now, or I might have to box him up and throw away the key."

"Thank you for your efforts on my behalf Jim, but they are unnecessary. My distance today has obviously been of no benefit to either of us. I will desist in future."

"Not good enough. Humans don't work like Vulcans; I can't just shut off the part of my brain that's worrying about what I did to offend you. I know you weren't happy with what the Ambassador had to say, but I don't see where that's my problem. Maybe protestations of innocence are a little misplaced here, but believe me when I say, I was an innocent bystander at the side of the road when the two of you collided."

Spock looked as though he understood this colorful metaphor – which impressed Jim, because all teasing aside, he could never really tell when Spock got Human colloquial terms and when he didn't.

"You will not accept that my problem is not in any way connected to you?" Spock asked.

"I would accept that if it were the truth, but it isn't."

Spock regarded him with grave consideration, thinking. Jim left him to it, willing to wait him out now that he felt like they were going somewhere. They were light years beyond where they'd been just five minutes ago with Spock sniping and Jim struggling to hang onto his temper.

"My difficulties with my counterpart are another matter," Spock said at last, appearing to come to a decision. "The issue between us is not related to what he said, but what you said."

"What_ I _said?"

"Yes."

"Enlighten me."

"You called him T'hy'la," Spock said, less of a statement and more of an accusation.

Jim stared at him incredulously, and his mouth continued in automatic denial before the rest of his brain kicked in. "I did not. When?"

No, he did remember. He remembered repeating the word that had stretched into his mind, out loud, with remarkably pure intonation. But it had been a question only; he hadn't been addressing anyone with it. Actually, the Ambassador had been addressing _him_ with it.

He wondered if Spock had ever heard the Human admonishment about eavesdroppers hearing nothing that they actually wanted to.

"Okay, you're right, I did say that, but you're laboring under a misconception here. I didn't even know what the word meant, how could I call him by it?"

"That was not what was implied," Spock said lowly, and looking down, Jim could see his hands were loose, loose in the way that T'Sai had kept hers very deliberately loose – as though any second they would curl involuntarily into fists and hammer out in some involuntary expression of emotion. "To impart knowledge of T'hy'la, to teach another of its meaning, requires more than just words, more than merely information. It is an understanding that he could not convey to you without some degree of – intimacy."

Jim didn't know what to say to that. There had been intimacy, a great deal of it, in fact, but not of the nature Spock was implying. It was a subtle difference, but it was there, it was – it was the difference between being intelligent and being wise, between fate and coincidence. A difference that almost wasn't a difference. Except for the fact that it _was_.

"Okay, so it wasn't exactly an impartial lesson," Jim admitted quietly. "But it's nothing like what you're implying. He's been a friend, an amazing friend; I won't deny that. He's shown me things I could never have imagined, things that have changed me, opened my eyes to the person I could be. The person I want to be. But I'm not standing with him right now, Spock; I'm standing with you. I'm not beating my head against a wall trying to convince him to listen to me; I'm trying to convince you. Doesn't that tell you something?"

"It tells me only that the difficulties between us seem far greater than those you would encounter should you turn your efforts to him instead of me."

"I don't _want_ to 'turn my efforts' to him, Spock, why can't you wrap your logical Vulcan brain around that?" He glared at the man, fisting his hands on his hips aggressively. "I don't get you. Last night you looked about ready to kill me for playing mental tag with him and now you're – what? Giving up on me? Throwing me to the wolves?"

"You did not seem to object to your treatment at the hand of the 'wolf'," Spock said coldly, somehow infusing disdain into a voice that had zero inflection in it. Frustrated beyond words, Jim threw up his hands, a harsh breath of exasperation bursting from him.

"What do you want from me? I don't understand what the problem is. I know the mind meld is a private Vulcan practice, you said so yourself, but obviously the Ambassador doesn't feel the same way about it that you do. If you're that pissed about the fact that we shared our thoughts then what the hell are you waiting for? Get over here and I'll show you exactly what he's taught me about T'hy'la."

Some part of Jim, some deeply hidden, buried part, was quietly cheerleading this suggestion, willing to toss aside their obvious issues and potential problems in light of experiencing another instance of shattering connection. It was the part that had insisted that one token protest to the Ambassador about telepathic safety was enough to satisfy reasonable self-interest, the part that had been so glad the second time they'd melded to abdicate responsibility, be buoyed up by someone else's strength.

But that part was really quite small, and very neatly hidden. Jim knew this, because he almost never made impulsive decisions that had a tendency to get him into trouble. Almost. Never.

Spock was staring at him, and the silence was heavy and complete. Jim gave him time to process the words, time to see the honesty underlying the offer, then pressed, "Come on. You can't tell me you're not tempted, and it would answer all your questions in an irrefutable way. It's a little hard to lie in a meld."

"The fact that you have experienced enough of them to be aware of that is, in itself, disturbing," Spock told him, remaining as still as a statue. Jim got the feeling that he'd truly managed to shock him. Certainly he'd managed to blow apart whatever snide fit of temper had grabbed hold of his First for most of today's bridge shift.

"You're stalling," Jim informed him, letting the slightest hint of impatience leak through. "It was a straightforward offer. Are you going to or aren't you?"

"I am not."

"_Why_? C'mon Spock, you can't have it both ways! You won't believe me when I tell you that your interpretation of events isn't accurate, but you also won't let me utilize the only tool at my disposal that could prove I'm telling you the truth, unequivocally!"

"You have no concept of what it is you ask," Spock growled, low, resonant voice vibrating through the air between them. Jim could feel the restraints on his temper beginning to fray a little in the face of such stolid, unrelenting stubbornness.

"Three melds since Nero made an appearance in all our lives – I think I have a better concept than most. This kind of accusatory reasoning isn't like you, Spock. What's your real objection here?"

"I need not explain myself to you," Spock said. "I am within my rights to refuse melding with any subject I deem unsuitable."

"_Unsuitable_?"

The anger, which Jim had so far managed to suppress beneath the weight of his concern, broke through his defenses precipitously. He felt himself chill, the blaze of feeling condensing into righteous fury. Spock thought he had no idea what he was talking about? _Spock_ had no idea what he was talking about. Jim had come to him openly, had been willing to meet him halfway on a solution here, but for his trouble all he was getting were snide comments and verbal disparagement – and Jim had always been at his most vicious when he felt wronged.

"Is that your way of telling me I'm not good enough, Mr. Spock?" he asked, and all of the playful banter, all of the cajoling had drained away from his voice, leeching out into coldness and rough disdain. "The other you didn't seem to think so."

"I implied no such thing," the Vulcan insisted coolly. "My hesitation is a reflection of my own views about the meld. I find the casual nature of the Ambassador's telepathic overtures to you unreasonably nonchalant –"

"Whereas I find them delightful. I was right there with him, you know, one hundred percent. You just don't like the fact that I let him put his psychic fingers in my head."

"My concern is with his indiscriminate use of the meld, not your own… acquiescence."

"That's bullshit, and I don't need to be a telepath to tell you that. I've practically got frostbite from the ice on the bridge today. Maybe you're more pissed at him, but you weren't even remotely accepting of my part in things last night." The accusations were coming fast and hard, and in the midst of them, something tumbled out that Jim hadn't consciously acknowledged, even to himself. "You were so jealous you were practically flushing green."

Anger and rage lit up those dark eyes like coals, and the Vulcan coiled to his feet with the even, sinuous glide of a python. Jim thrilled to see it, because that was exactly what he'd been waiting for. Pushing forward aggressively, he stepped up into Spock's personal space, two long strides, until they were nearly close enough to touch. Some simmering part of his brain insisted that this was a bad plan, a very bad plan, but he couldn't be bothered to listen.

"You know nothing of what you speak," the Vulcan hissed contemptuously.

"Don't I?" Jim purred, a small, sick smile of sarcasm stretching his mouth with incongruous gentleness. "You think I don't recognize possessiveness when I see it?" He hadn't, actually, but it would be a tactical error to tell Spock that, and he was too pissed off to give credence to the tiny voice of caution screaming in the back of his head. "Give me some credit, at least, though I have to admit, you're the last person I would have labeled territorial."

"Be silent."

"Make me," Jim whispered, and he didn't know if the tension pounding through his veins was fear or anger or something else. Adrenaline spiked through him hard, the rush of a fight, bloodlust like fine caviar.

"You are attempting to provoke me," Spock noted, only the bare tremble of his voice giving away his investment in this conversation.

"Yes, I am," Jim admitted, remembering another time when that had been true, another time he'd found himself up in the other's personal space, baiting him, practically taunting him with his own feelings.

"Are you afraid, or aren't you, Spock?" he asked, pulling them both back into the moment, that peak of emotion. "What's it like not to feel anger?"

"I cannot do this," Spock breathed, exhaling hard and turning away so sharply that he displaced Jim, who was standing so close he was almost on top of him. He headed for the door with a determined stride, and like any predator sensing weakness, the captain leapt forward at this opening, whipping the other man around until they stood toe to toe again, with nowhere to look but at each other.

"What's it like to stop at nothing to hide your feelings –"

"Enough!"

"- even from yourself!"

"Please," the Vulcan whispered. Eyes that were dilated to almost pure black slid closed, blocking the Human out. One hand came up, followed by the other, long fingers curling into claws and pressing hard into both his temples. His struggle for control was evident, and Jim, brought sharply back to reality, realized with a pang that he had, in the midst of being attacked, responded in the way most familiar to him – by attacking in turn. Guilt immediately waylaid him.

"Sorry," he said helplessly. "Shit. I didn't mean any of that. I was frustrated that you wouldn't talk to me, but I should know better than to open my big mouth. It just makes more room for my foot."

Spock didn't answer, but his fingers pressed so hard into his face that the skin leeched of color. A wavering note of involuntarily projected confusion snagged at Jim, bleeding across the space between them like an open wound. At a loss for anything else to do, Jim reached out, clutching at those hurtful hands, tugging until it became clear that they wouldn't be budged by brute strength alone.

"Spock," he implored, willing the Vulcan to hear him, give in to him. The other didn't answer, lost in some shameful internal world. Jim pulled harder, determined, but those digging hands would not be moved. He waited to see if Spock would come back, but he didn't, and they stood in silence for several minutes, while Jim looked helplessly on.

Bereft of options, he let himself drift forward until his forehead impacted gently against his friend's.

"Spock, don't do this."

When the other still didn't move, he lifted his head, gazing in agonized indecision at his First. He didn't know what to do. He'd done this to the Vulcan, broken his perfect control in his need to hurt as he was hurting, and now he had no one but himself to blame for the his state.

At a loss, he tilted his face up and brushed a careful, almost involuntary kiss over the back of Spock's left hand.

Something loosened, minutely, to be sure, but perceptibly. Thrilled, Jim pressed his mouth to a white knuckle, then the one next to it. The painful tension waned, just a little. Growing bolder, Jim found himself daring to press another kiss to the side of his thumb.

"Please."

The claws relaxed, the painful confusion fading out between them. Unwilling to lose the contact that had won him this reprieve, Jim continued to brush his open mouth over the whole expanse of those sensitive hands, lightly, peeling them away in a manner that required all of his Human strength and all of this rather unusual persuasion. When at last Spock was free of the punishing grip of his own hands, Jim clutched them tightly in his, hoping, somehow, to prevent it from happening again.

He cradled them between them, next to his heart, and rested their foreheads together once more. It was too close to see anything in that face, so he closed his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. "I'm an idiot, and I have no control over my rotten temper. You are who you are – I wouldn't change you even if I could. You don't have to answer to me about anything you feel. But you should know you have nothing to be envious over. You and him – there's no comparison. What I'll have with him is easy to define. Lifelong friendship. Trust. Family. What we'll have between us, I don't know, but this intensity we have, this way of getting under each other's skin, this push – it wasn't like that between me and him."

"Was it not?" Spock asked, and the underlying urgency in his question made Jim pull back just a little to regard him, look at him from enough of a distance to see his face. There was almost a plea in those dark eyes.

"When you shared thoughts with my other self, it was not – you did not feel like this?"

"You must be joking," Jim said.

"I am not."

"No. No, I can see that you aren't," Jim accepted quietly. "Spock, believe me when I tell you, I haven't felt this wound up in circles in a long time. Ever, maybe. When I said he and I were easy, well – we are. You and me, we're not easy, and that's not a bad thing. The best things need to be worked at, built on and built up with time and effort."

"My mother said something similar to me once. That I must make my own choices and to let nothing stand in my way. She quoted a historical figure of your Earth, citing that anything worth having is worth fighting for."

"Thomas Jefferson."

Spock looked at him askance, a small not-smile curving the very edge of his mouth. Mesmerized, Jim felt his eyes fix completely on that tiny smirk.

"Indeed," Spock said. "I find that your habit of representing yourself in jest is an excellent camouflage of your intellectual aptitude. Why do you do this?"

"Never hurts to have people underestimate me," Jim muttered, licking his lips absentmindedly. "It's worked several times on you, and you're a genius. Imagine how Komack must feel."

Spock, having caught the direction of his captain's gaze, froze into stillness. Jim expected him to pull away, as he had that night at dinner, even though the current of tension was strung taught between them once again. But he didn't. And Jim, buoyed by this unexpected hesitance, drifted closer.

"You are a particularly shrewd Human," Spock murmured, watching him. "You continually circumvent my efforts at categorizing you."

"Shrewd is pretty kind of you, Spock," Jim said, so close that they were almost sharing breath. "I've been called the devil incarnate before."

"You are once more attempting to provoke me," Spock whispered, unmoving.

"Yes." The tension ratcheted up one more screaming notch. "Is it working?"

"Yes," Spock said.

"Good." And he swayed forward, drawn by something outside his control, and kissed him.

It was tentative, at first. Feather light and teasing. If there was one thing James Kirk could be called a master of, it was seduction. He took his time seducing Spock into responding and the Vulcan more than returned his interest. The first tentative touch of a tongue didn't venture from his mouth, but from the other's. With a faint sigh of acceptance, he opened the kiss, deepening it almost against his will.

The heat of Spock's mouth was scorching and wet. He tasted of spice. They exchanged careful, generous, toe curling kisses for some time, the press of their mouths obscenely erotic. Jim could feel himself harden so fast it was like blood dropped from his brain to fill his cock. Maybe it had. He certainly felt lightheaded enough. He teased at the rough top of Spock's mouth, and the moan that rumbled between them wasn't his. Thrilled, he did it again, and then a third time.

Spock touched him with his right hand, a hot alien thumb trailing down his right cheek, drifting to the collar of his shirt and slipping just below the neckline with a rough, demanding tug. Jim twitched, and something, some instinct from another life, pounded at him too loudly to be ignored. He gave into the insistent whisper of direction, taking that sensitive hand in his own and tangling their fingers so deeply together that the heat from the Vulcan's skin almost burned him. Spock shuddered, an all over tremble that began in his chest and rippled outward, and Jim rubbed the tips of his fingers against one of his First's, feeling as though all the awareness in his body centered there. A mind not his own hovered hungrily at the edge of his perception, and he gasped to feel it, yearning for it, wanting it in a maddening, crushing way.

He slid forward, so the press of their bodies moved them back into the wall. Gone were the reasons they couldn't do this, gone was the notion of propriety, or decency, or conscience. This was heat and tension rolled into the touch of skin on skin, the rough rasp of stubble burning against his face, and he'd never have taken Spock for facial hair, not that smooth, milky white skin, which had always looked soft and flawless. Releasing those tempting lips, he panted, brushing the full length of their cheeks together, the sweat cloying between them. He lipped a rough kiss against the side of the Vulcan's throat, felt the corresponding rumble of a throaty response, not quite a gasp or growl, but a soundless, helpless huff of air.

Mindlessly seeking, Jim slid a thigh between Spock's legs, grinding up in a slow roll, pressing into the other's hard, flat body. He felt like he was struggling to hold himself up under the onslaught of lust that was crashing down on them. There was a hint of resistance from the Vulcan, a minute attempt to prevent being splayed so terribly open, and Jim crooned a wordless reassurance. Then he ruined the effect by dragging their clasped right hands above both their heads and trapping Spock's wrist against the wall with weighted, heavy pressure. The Vulcan made an inarticulate sound, like glass breaking, but he didn't pull away, clutching at the grip in spite of himself. Jim rewarded him by sinking his teeth into the long, graceful neck, reveling in the rising musk around them, breathing it in like honeyed wine.

He was so hard it hurt, the excitement pouring into his veins like liquid fire. He set them on a slow, rippling pace, rocking into each other gradually. A brand of heat pressed into his thigh, and he rubbed up against it, hearing the stutter of air next to his ear, the involuntary push of hips bruising his. He trailed another bite into that salty skin, licking delicately at the sweat peppering them both. The taste was different – inhuman. Jim liked it.

"Oh," he rasped, the first word he'd managed to get out since giving into desire, and reared back up to press their mouths together in a fierce, wanton kiss. He explored the other's mouth fervently, pressing behind his teeth and mimicking the slow thrusts of their hips with his tongue. He disengaged just long enough to gasp, "Spock –"

And the Vulcan wrenched away from him, stepping to the side and disengaging their hands with a brutal jerk of his fingers. Pain spiked through Jim, and he knew that wrist was going to be trouble later. It gave him a chance to focus though, and the haze retreated just enough for Jim to see what that bid for safety and sanity had cost Spock. The look on his face suggested that he might have easier disemboweled himself than step away.

"What the hell? Get your ass back over here." He reached for him again, and his First took two unsteady steps backward, shying away from him wildly.

"Do not," Spock commanded, but weakly, his voice a mere ghost between them. Jim cursed, and smacked his head hard into the wall in frustration. His cock ached and he had to take a moment to adjust, hearing the gasp that the Vulcan was unable to mask while he watched. Jim shook his head, leaning his temple against the wall and regarding the other with weary, drained curiosity.

"Why?"

"There are – things still to discuss, issues that must be laid to rest –"

"There will always be reasons why this isn't a good idea. Give me one that's good enough to stop us right now, right this moment. Tell me you're not fighting yourself just to be standing two feet away from me."

"I –"

"Tell me truthfully."

Spock floundered, at a loss. "Jim..."

"God," the Human groaned, straining, holding himself back only by the greatest effort of will. "I want you. _I want you. _I have a terminal case of lust with my Vulcan first officer. How screwed up is this? I'm going to kill that bastard for ever putting this idea in my head. This is crazy."

"I am sorry," Spock said. "I will not lie to you. Your desire is not – not one-sided. But I cannot do this with you now. Yet. I still have… obligations I must see to first."

"Uhura," Jim guessed.

"Among other things."

"You're standing there with a hard-on that I'll bet is just as uncomfortable as mine, while I'm giving you the best bedroom eyes in my arsenal, and you're talking to me about other obligations?"

"It appears so."

Jim stretched out with a sigh against the wall, pretty certain he wasn't going to be getting any tonight. He took a moment to appreciate the way Spock's eyes trailed over the length of him, taking in his insistent arousal with hungry, coveting eyes.

"You're a goddamned cock tease, you know that Spock?"

The Vulcan's gaze shot up to his, widening in shock. "I beg your pardon –"

"Okay, that might actually be an idiom you're unfamiliar with," Jim muttered. "Needless to say, I find your reticence… irritating."

"I am also dissatisfied with the necessity, but I have only recently acknowledged that I am – drawn to you. Last night was particularly efficacious in bringing the nature of my desires to my attention. And I hold Lieutenant Uhura in too high an esteem to discount her feelings in this matter."

"Yeah," Jim said. "That sounds about right." He was a little relieved, actually. Well, the part of him that wasn't screaming at being denied was relieved, anyway. It would have been murderously awkward to finish what they'd started here and then have to face Uhura in the upcoming weeks. Not to mention the guilt that probably would have eaten him alive. Jim had been known to do a lot of things for sex, but he usually had a hard and fast rule about home wrecking. On the other hand, that didn't mean he had any intention of getting involved in Spock's resolution of this matter. Spock was the one with the problem; he could deal with it.

And Jim took great comfort in that involuntary slip of the tongue (_don't think about his tongue_, he scolded himself), that: _I cannot do this with you… yet._

"I can't believe I'm being stiffed – quite literally, in fact – by my second in command. You realize you're going to make this up to me in about fifty different ways?" _Fifty different positions, _he thought.

"I will attempt to settle my personal matters accordingly, so that I might begin – repayment."

Huh. Jim hadn't thought he was projecting that little innuendo, but then, he was pretty new at not thinking things around telepaths he was 'in-tune' with. Or maybe Spock was just being cheeky. Either way, Jim figured he could safely up the number to sixty.

"Well, in that case, I think I'm going to turn in for a quick shower and then see to our passengers. We reach the colony in about four hours."

"I am aware."

"I hope you're also aware that shower is a euphemism for masturbation. Because that's pretty much what I'm going to be doing the second I hit my cabin. Just thought you should know."

"Oh," Spock said weakly, staring at him. Jim took vicious satisfaction in noting that they were both still hard, and from the way the Vulcan twitched, might stay that way for a while longer.

"Right," Jim said. "Thanks for the scintillating conversation, Spock. I think we're finally on the same page, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes. Quite." The volume of the Vulcan's voice hadn't risen one iota. Jim hoped he had serious trouble regaining it.

"Computer, disengage privacy lock." He rattled off the authorization code, making no effort to hide the state of his body as he strode casually to the door.

"I'll think of you fondly, and in copious amounts," Jim said over his shoulder as he exited, turning smartly and heading for the nearest turbolift that would lead him past the least amount of crewmembers. He was going to have to report Starfleet uniforms as being unusually inconvenient on a number of matters. Failure to hide evidence of an erection, for one.

Left behind, Spock stared after his captain for far longer than was strictly necessary, especially seeing as the doors had cut him from view approximately 2.4 seconds after his exit.

"Oh," he repeated, and considered that for a life-altering conversation, less than half of which had actually consisted of debatable argument, the amount of resolution it had provided him with was completely – illogical. But then, he was beginning to suspect that logic would not always serve him best, or even well, when it came to relations with the man who would be his T'hy'la.

_Time is up_, he thought.

End Chapter Nine.

A/N: I forgot that there's no access to my LJ from , so I should have said something earlier, sorry. I decided to extend this story a bit, and then give it an epiloque. So there should be probably one (maybe two) more chapters to finish it up.


	10. Chapter 10

Breaking Points

Chapter Ten

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: In all endings there are beginnings.

~*~

Jim fully intended to inform Spock, at some future point, that in the four hours leading to the Enterprise's arrival at the colony, he'd actually ended up taking two showers (three if you counted the one that hadn't taken place in the fresher). He filed this vital information away to be shared at the most strikingly appropriate moment possible; maybe on the bridge. During an efficiency drill. While Spock was on ship-wide communication, relaying instructions. Yeah, that could work.

The events in the briefing room were vivid enough to provide an excellent, if momentary, distraction for Jim, but eventually the imminent completion of their mission intruded on his frivolity. He briefly considered not going to see the Vulcans off ship; Spock would already be there, after all, seeing as the passengers were under his purview. But then – there was the Ambassador to consider. In that much, at least, not going had never truly been an option.

He threw on a clean uniform, firmly shoving aside the notion of more formal dress. This situation was going to be tense as it was; the last thing he needed was another reason to feel like his neck was in a noose. Even so, he found that he couldn't help pacing restlessly as the chronometer counted down the minutes with frustrating lethargy. It occurred to him that his time could have been much more profitably spent (though with a certain lack of, ahem, showering) if he'd allowed himself to be kidnapped again by his chief engineer. Oh well. Scotty was probably not in the best of moods anyway, seeing as Jim had checked his closet not an hour ago and found that his formerly leaning tower of possessions was now scrunched into an enormous and disastrous looking mess at the bottom of said closet. Jim reminded himself to be on the lookout for the hastily planned revenge that was probably already in the midst of being implemented. He just hoped it didn't involve more jefferies tubes.

The Enterprise was right on schedule (a phenomenon he futilely hoped would remain true of all their missions) and twenty minutes before they were due to reach orbit, Jim sent an internal missive to his First – labeled 'urgent' – that the captain would see to the Vulcan's disembarkation, thus freeing Spock of his obligations to them. This rang decidedly of cowardice, especially since a verbal communication would have been easier, but Jim wasn't too proud to admit that the thought of talking to Spock so soon after The Briefing Room Incident quite literally gave him goosebumps. And that wasn't taking into account the Ambassador, either, whom his First may or may not be harboring a secret desire to throttle (Jim distinctly remembered that being throttled by the man was an experience that should be avoided). Visions of murder and verbal warfare danced prominently through his mind.

The chaos wasn't quite as pronounced as it had been the last time Jim frequented the transporter room, but it was a close second. He'd half expected Spock to be present, in spite of his explicitly stated 'take the night off, that's an order', but he wasn't, and Jim took a moment to be ridiculously grateful for that. Both for his own peace of mind, and for Spock's, because he once again couldn't help but wonder what pain would be seething beneath his First's perfectly composed exterior as he escorted two hundred of his people to the home he wouldn't be joining them on. At least now he could go lick his wounds (_don't think about his tongue,_ Jim reminded himself petulantly) in peace.

The procession of Vulcans that marched through the transporter room that evening was quite a sight to behold. It would have seemed truly remarkable if the very essence of it didn't bring home the truth of their unfortunate mission to every Human watching the parade: these people were refugees of a dead world, shuffling with great determination, but little hope, to what would be their new one. Jim was more familiar than most with the particulars of it, and his natural compassion took a hard beating with each new group of faces that came and went. It shamed him to think of how eager he'd been at the start of the mission to see these people gone from his ship.

Some of the Vulcans he knew, some the Ambassador had introduced him to, but for the most part all of the faces that passed did so anonymously. He gave them the courtesy of his full attention and for each one a traditional Vulcan parting (which he was given to understand was the standard only after seeing the first dozen of them do it), except for the salute, which he botched – repeatedly and spectacularly.

"Live long and prosper," he told them, mostly.

"Peace and long life," he said, when the other one got boring. You really had to give the Vulcans credit,he mused. They certainly managed to express, in no greater than four words a piece, what might take Humans an entire conversation to convey.

He might have missed T'Sai altogether if he hadn't been watching for her; somehow in the intervening stretch of days he'd forgotten just how young she was, and how very small and fragile she appeared. She came with Stolvik, and he wondered for a moment if this was the supposed guardian who'd assigned her punishment for her 'misbehavior'. _Probably better not to know,_ he reasoned. If he knew, he might be tempted to do something about it.

He broke from his position next to the transporter console to go to her, catching her dark eyes when she turned up to him. He'd already knelt, bringing himself down to her eye-level, before he even considered how ridiculous this must look. Well, too late for it now. And worth it, he reasoned, as he shared a look with her of intensely solemn commiseration, the understanding only survivors could share. Here was a Vulcan child who would grow up understanding that life truly was as breakable, as transient, as the wisps of a dream, or the most fragile thread of glass. And everything that made life worth living, was worth hanging on to, by blood and teeth and unconquerable force of will alone, if that's what it took.

He wanted to reach out and hug her, but he also didn't want to embarrass her in front of her companions, those people for whom she tried so hard to maintain her devastating control for. But he needn't have worried about it. With all the quiet determination of someone graced with a very rare wisdom, she opened her small arms and pulled him close, in a quick but firm hug. He could feel the eyes of everyone in the room cutting into them, but he didn't care. In fact, the thought of their disapproval spurred him to greater heights of sacrilege (disapproval had a way of doing that to him), and he wrapped his arms around her in turn, gently, squeezing hard once and then releasing her. She pushed him back, at arms length. When he opened his mouth to say something embarrassing, or uplifting, or he didn't know what else, she shook her head, and the words died, stillborn. In the ensuing silence, she said simply:

"Thank you."

It could have been 'I am grateful', or it could have been 'I appreciate' – but it wasn't. There were no rote phrases that followed. No scramble for distance. 'Thank you' was raw, and somehow intimate, and also – eminently appropriate. 'Thank you' was something, in that moment, that blended the best parts of Vulcan succinctness with Human freedom in expression.

"Thank you," he agreed gently, because it might have been 'you're welcome', but it wasn't, and this parting could never have been anything else but a _mutual_ acknowledgment of how they had touched one another. And then he stood, sending only the best of his wishes through the touch of his fingers, and left her to get back to his position next to the control console. He carefully didn't look at any of the other Vulcans, half because he didn't want it to seem like he cared what they thought, but also because he was a little afraid of the secrets his face would tell them.

Most of the people that came and went after that were a blur, but he knew when the last of the Vulcans arrived because the Ambassador was with them, and even before he entered the room there seemed to be some sort of energy displacement, like hair raising on that back of his neck, that told Jim he was approaching. Maybe it was instinct, maybe it was just that attunement that seemed to be at the heart of so much of this connection; whatever it was, it dragged Jim sharply away from the pensive state he'd been hovering in. He turned to watch the doorway, waiting.

He was wearing those same black robes, the ones that seemed at once entirely suitable for him and oddly incongruent. Jim couldn't help but grin as he remembered that each time he'd glimpsed the man in them, something in his own life had shifted unexpectedly; he thought it might be developing into an unhealthy pattern.

He didn't say anything at first, considering and rejecting about a thousand different catch phrases – anything from 'don't make it a desert this time', to 'don't do anything with those elders that I wouldn't do', to 'how about one last Vulcan mind whammy for the road'. All of them were lighthearted, and easy, and safe, and none of them were, of course, appropriate. The only things that might possibly be appropriate, full of honesty and vulnerability all seemed too big - too much.

A part of him rebelled at this absurd paralysis, the inability to reach out – he'd _knelt_ before T'Sai, after all, in front of all and sundry – how could this be any different? But it was different; it was so much harder. How to tell a man who'd literally turned his world on its axis, torn up the parts of himself Jim thought he knew and remade them with his gentle words, and kindly advice, and endless depth of caring… How to tell him what he didn't even have words to describe: how grateful he was to know him?

He watched as the Ambassador, unhindered by the thoughts racing through Jim's mind, passed closely in front of him. Aside from the mad urge he had to reach out and just - touch him, confirm that he was actually real one last time before it was too late – Jim found he literally could not think of a single useful thing to say.

_Good old James T.,_ he thought to himself. _Great at basically everything except telling the people that matter to you, sans bullshit, that you care about them._

Jim watched as Spock, the Spock who had touched his soul in so profound a way, stopped in front of him, coming to an about right face, until he had to crane his head up just slightly to meet the impassive eyes gazing down at him. Uncomfortable, desperately aware of several ensigns and the transporter tech standing behind him, he raised a hand in quiet inquiry, trying to convey through his expression alone how deeply this man had begun to change him.

"Sp –" he caught himself. "Solkar." Some private humor flickered through the other at this near breach, and Jim had a moment to wonder if in this other life he might have lived, he'd been the one to teach this Vulcan the necessity of a devilish sense of humor.

Spock reached for him, not in the formal salute, but in a handshake. Like T'Sai, he seemed unafraid to reach for other customs where Vulcan ones fell so very short. They shook once, firmly, but the older man did not let go. Instead, he used the point of contact to pull him closer. Hyper aware of the people stirring with curiosity all around them, Jim forced down the flush that tried to rise in his cheeks. Amusement at his efforts sparked in the Ambassador's eyes, and Jim had another moment in which to regret the possible sense of humor he may have bestowed on this man, and swear privately to withhold any such impulse in the future. His future, not Spock's – not this Spock's future. The other Spock's future.

Right. Well, someone's future.

"Some people spend their whole lives searching for greatness and glory, Jim Kirk," the other said, in a voice pitched only for him. "While some others are simply great, and glory comes to them." He didn't point out to which half he thought Jim belonged, but his meaning was more than obvious.

A dozen vulnerable and poignant responses leapt to Jim's lips, crowding into his throat and numbing it of all possible speech. But the one that finally tumbled out seemed to have no connection at all with his brain.

"Which category do you fall into?"

The moment he said it, he wanted to take it back. Shame burned at him, heavy beneath his collar and heavier in his chest. Flippant responses to emotional pressure were a reflex by now – but that was no reason to treat this man to the inappropriate, and undeserved, irreverence that Jim had spent a lifetime accumulating.

But Spock did not seem upset. If anything, the laughter hidden in his eyes brightened even further. "The latter, of course, old friend. You came to me, did you not?"

The choking sensation intensified, and the captain thought he might never understand this kind of faith being gifted to him so freely. Quicksilver filaments of a foreign mind tickled at his own and he dove toward them, reaching for an intimacy beyond this room, this need for verbal good-byes. Spock allowed it, meeting him halfway; not a meld, more a thin string of connection.

_Do not be sad for this parting, dear one,_ the thought drifted into his mind like a ripple in a pond, merging fluidly and with barely a whisper of disturbance_. I have known and cherished you in two lives now – and if my journey here has taught me anything, it is that no farewell is permanent. I have satisfied my selfishness and give you now, in gratitude, the greatest gift that I can. The greatest friendship that I have in me, that he has in him, to give you._

Jim opened his mouth to say something hopefully profound, and found he was still without words. So instead, over the pinpoint meeting of their thoughts, he sent everything he'd gathered inside of him in that moment, the wonder, the affection, and the gratitude, spiraling into the other, jumbled together and clumsy, but the closest approximation to a public declaration that he could come to.

If it was possible to send love, a whole lifetime of it somehow acquired in the span of just ten days, bottled up and condensed, that was what Jim did. And the flicker of tender acceptance that floated back to him more than made up for how utterly ridiculous he felt trying to send positive psychic vibrations to his friend.

Then the elder was disengaging their clasped hands and raising his in the traditional salute, fingers separated down the middle. Jim automatically tried to copy him (forgetting his unfortunate attempts from earlier) and ended up with some sort of convoluted hand gesture that he sincerely hoped didn't mean anything profane, because that could be awkward.

If he noticed Jim's difficulty, the Ambassador didn't show it, speaking now in a natural, carrying tone. "I need not wish you long life or prosperity again, Captain Kirk. I believe that you will have them – in the fullness of time."

"What about peace?" Jim asked, managing to find his voice at last. "You don't think I could use some well wishes in that area?"

"Perhaps," the Ambassador agreed. "However, I should point out that if tranquility is what you desire, your choice of career may make this lifestyle – difficult to maintain."

Jim laughed, feeling some of that wretched tension bleed away, the awful feeling of impending doom fade just slightly.

"So in lieu of my customary farewell, I will simply say to you what I said to a mutual acquaintance of ours, not so long ago. Good luck." A final projection, barely a whisper of thought, stretched to fill the gap between them, so softly that Jim couldn't be sure he hadn't imagined it.

_Goodbye, T'hy'la. For now._

"Goodbye," he said, they said, together. _For now._

The elder moved back and away, looking composed for all that he'd just torpedoed about a dozen Vulcan mores, in front of an entire roomful of people. Not moments later he was stationed on the transporter pad, as serene and unruffled as ever.

Jim wasn't sure where the words bubbled up from. Maybe they were a legacy of the connection that had flared so brightly between them, maybe they lingered from the entwining of their memories, or maybe they just happened to fortuitously pop into his head at that moment, in an ironic echo of their very first meeting on Delta Vega. But as the transporter controls began to whine with the beginnings of dematerialization, Jim found himself stepping forward clumsily, a sudden burst of urgency and _rightness_ singing through him.

"Ambassador," he said.

The eyes, beginning to whiten with the glow from the transporter field, looked up and caught his own, with an open and enduring expression of perfect trust.

"I have been, and always shall be, your friend," Jim told him. "In all walks of life – and all those to come."

Though Jim thought it might just be a trick of the light, he'd be willing to bet with all his intuition behind him that in the last moments before the transporter whisked Spock away to the colony, the Vulcan actually smiled at him, a bright, toothy smile, right there, in full view of anyone who cared to see.

Jim left the transporter room shortly after that, without a word to anyone, and dreamt that night of a friendship that had spanned time and bridged universes. And his own, terrible, personal loneliness, so deep that he had cause to wish that the Human solution to grief was half as effective as the Vulcan one.

~*~

They left orbit the next morning, their duties discharged, and headed out for their next assignment. Scotty, free at last to see to the Enterprise without the fracas of two-hundred extra bodies crowding her, began immediately upgrading the engines to his own personal specifications ("only get'n them in simple workin' order, cap'n"). Jim was rightfully leery of this, being as Admiral Archer's beagle had still not been found, but he also had a sneaking suspicion that Ambassador Solkar's, ahem, not-bribery was at least partially responsible for it. He gave Scotty the thumbs up, even going so far as to give him permission to pull from other departments; Jim _personally_ avoided being drafted into helping by a very narrow margin. He was beginning to grow wise to his chief engineer's tricks, even though the man seemed determined that his captain was more than due for the greasiest, dirtiest maintenance work he could find. Maybe Jim shouldn't have stacked that pile of junk in his closet quite so high.

But, in the interests of inter-ship peace, the captain gladly (and desperately) gave Scotty a few of his bridge crew, to use as he saw fit. Chekov had not been at all pleased, and Jim told himself that when the kid's birthday finally came around, he'd make it up to him.

The following week was very odd for Jim. He wasn't exactly pining for the friend he'd left behind, but he wasn't being blasé about the separation either. What he noted most was how strangely awkward he felt now that the shockingly natural routine that had settled between him and the Ambassador – the dinners in the evening, the candid conversations – had disappeared. It didn't make any sense, really, considering the small amount of time he'd had to settle into that routine, but there it was, all the same.

The end of the workweek was a welcome relief. He was slumped against the inside wall of a turbolift, heading for his quarters for a quick change of clothes before he went hunting for Bones, when serendipity crashed into him, quite literally, and not for the first time, in the form of his first officer. Jim hadn't straightened up when the turbolift came to a smooth stop to pick up a second passenger, but he did jerk in surprise when the even, almost-but-not-quite reproachful tone of his First reached his ears.

"Good evening, Captain."

"Spock," he said blankly, thrown. He and Spock hadn't been avoiding each other – that would be rather difficult seeing as they worked the same bridge shift, and Spock was, after all, second in command of the Enterprise. But they certainly hadn't gone out of their way to make any overtures, either, both of their (or Jim's, at least) thoughts firmly _not_ focused on the events of a week ago. This was the first chance they'd had to speak outside of duty in that time, and of course, it just had to take place in a confined, closed in, completely _private_ space.

Where was a massive intergalactic incident when you needed one?

The turbolift doors swished closed behind his First, but neither of them made any move for the controls, and the silence was so thick Jim doubted he could have waded through it with an environmental suit.

"Um," he said, (intelligently, he thought), "where are you headed?"

The Vulcan seemed to realize belatedly that he had, indeed, been heading somewhere, and reached out with an unnaturally stiff motion to key in a destination. "It is my habit to take a late meal on the days my scientific duties occupy me past the more regular dinner hour. In general I prefer to dine in private, but for the sake of expediency I had thought to visit the mess hall before returning to my quarters for a rest period."

"You seemed to like the pasta the other night well enough," Jim said, as the lift began to move. He was a little disappointed that Spock's voice gave no indication of discomfort, or something else, at their unexpected solitude, though that pause when he'd first seen the Human had been – interesting. "But I guess that was more my choice than yours. What do you normally like to eat when left to your own devices?"

"As I was provided mainly Vulcan cuisine in my youth, my tastes run particularly to those foods; however, I often enjoy vegetable dishes or salads from the more Earth-based menu. Pasta is a rare, but pleasant, indulgence."

"Ah," Jim said, trying not to feel too ridiculously pleased to hear that, "that's – good. Logical, and all that."

The turbolift slowed as it approached the correct deck, the doors parting again, and he was treated to the sight of his first officer's back as the man exited with only a polite nod of farewell. Jim, abruptly realizing their short conversation was about to be cut even shorter, found himself stumbling after him, calling "Spock!"

Arrested by this address, so infused with emotion, the Vulcan turned to face him, curious. Jim raked a hand through his hair absentmindedly.

"Yes?"

"I –"

_I__, what?_ He thought, searching his mind frantically for a plausible reason to keep Spock with him, conceiving and discarding a dozen ideas in as many seconds. Most of them settled into two categories: those built from the basis of duty, or those built from a more personal appeal.

The ones stemming from duty – _I could use your help finishing up preparations for our next mission; I have a few official matters to discuss with you _– were a little distasteful, and dishonest to boot. Why should he elicit Spock's company under false pretenses?

The more personal ones – _I could use a friendly ear; come back to my quarters for a chat (oh, _his inner devil purred, sounding disturbingly like Bones,_ we're calling these things _chats_ now are we); have you given any thought to the merits of various shower-related eccentricities_ – seemed boorishly presumptuous. Although they, at least, had the merit of being completely honest. And anyway, Spock had had two days to settle his affairs; surely that was long enough? Part of Jim was aware of the utter absurdity of that thought, but most of him was busy ignoring that part, and the rest of him was busy saying _oh, the hell with it, it wouldn't work out anyway, so I might as well get this over with._

But even as he lifted his head to regard his First, mouth opening to deliver a cliched and unworthy invitation, all his desire for a quick solution – regardless of how underhanded – fizzled and vanished into smoke. It was only the sting of separation that was hounding him, he knew. It was his own innate need to drown out the loneliness with connection that was making him feel as though he should grab onto Spock with both hands and not let go, lest he lose him. The irony, of course, being that grabbing at him in that manner would just about guarantee that he would, in fact, lose him.

"Captain? Are you all right?" Spock gazed at him quizzically, the tilt of head expressing honest concern for the Human's welfare. Jim smiled weakly.

"I'm fine," he said. "Fine. I just –"

_Dammit_, Jim thought. This would all be so much easier if all he wanted from Spock was sex. Then he could continue with his (doubtlessly) insulting proposition, Spock could turn him down in stoically stated disgust, and Jim would be entirely in the clear. Entirely free to take that rejection for the immutable distance that it would no doubt turn into and go back to his life the way it had been before it was ripped up by the roots and replanted, upside down. Before he'd found out about the possibility of a relationship that had the potential to reshape his entire future. Perhaps reshape it into something greater than it could be otherwise.

He came within a hair's breath of abrasive crudeness of the sort he knew would send Spock as far away from him as it was possible to be and still stand in the same small space of the turbolift. But he hesitated, the words already half-formed in his mouth, and in the hesitation, purpose set in. He could make that choice; he could choose to throw it all away, to save himself the possible burdens waiting in the wings of a relationship like the one he knew he and Spock could have. Or he could choose to take that possibility on, fight for what he wanted, choose to see the glass as half-full instead of half-empty. He could choose to risk parts of him he'd never even known existed to endanger.

But what decided it for him, in the end, was the memory of childish arms wrapping around him tightly, defying protocol, custom, and even dignity to share in a moment of honor and remembrance. And her voice saying simply, _thank you_, because Vulcan traditions were all well and good, but sometimes it took bending the rules a little to really get things right, to open up all the possibilities inherent in one pivotal moment. Jim determined that he didn't like the idea that a child, even a Vulcan child, could be braver and more willing to put herself on the line, than he was. It was the ultimate gamble, really, the gauntlet thrown down, the most insidious sort of provocation.

_I dare you to do better_.

He never had been able to resist a challenge.

"Jim?" his First prompted, beginning to look just a little irritated (in that un-irritated Vulcan way of his), and the use of his first name, without prodding, filled Jim with a small feeling of victory, a sense of triumph, and the beginnings of what could have been hope. Hope for them? He didn't know. Hope for _something_.

"If your plans aren't set in stone, how about joining me instead, for your late meal? I haven't managed more than a few bites at lunch today." And if Spock accepted the invitation, Jim wasn't sure he'd manage any more at dinner. The tension stretching through him took up more space than he seemed to have room for in his body.

Spock was looking at him, and there was so little to actually interpret in his face that Jim had to almost physically wrestle down the feeling of panic trying to climb up into his throat.

"You are extending another private dinner invitation?" Spock asked, not eagerly, not disdainfully, just – asking.

Jim forced himself to smile, forced his mouth to hold the shape of it without falling. "Dinner and perhaps a game of chess, Spock. A mutual acquaintance mentioned to me that you played the game."

Spock eyed him, the sort of quietly contemplative stare he'd come to expect from his First, and Jim couldn't help the feeling that something momentous was being decided beneath the stillness of those brown eyes. Maybe it was his own sense of breathless anticipation, the feeling of waiting on tenterhooks; maybe he was projecting that onto the other man. But he doubted it.

"I appreciate the invitation, Jim, and I would be pleased to accept. But I do not know if it would be wise – considering our difficulties two days previous," Spock admitted quietly.

Jim fought back the flush trying to crawl up his neck. "Well, that was a pretty intense situation all around. One where we both made – overtures – that might have been a bit, ah, premature. It won't happen again without exclusive permission from both us. I'll keep my hands to myself. Scout's honor." _Unless you don't want me to_, he didn't say.

"I find it highly unlikely that you were ever involved in anything as wholesome as boyscouts, Jim."

He grinned, thinking of about the million and one summer camp jokes he had stored away that Spock would probably love to dissect, a good many of which had been spawned in boyscouts. "I might surprise you."

"You often do."

Jim waited, because Spock was worth waiting for, and because he'd never known another person he was so content to stand in silence with. Spock grounded him, gave him closure and peace where normally Jim would be moving in about five different directions even while having this conversation.

He opened his mouth to say something of that nature – fighting not to make it into a joke, because that's what he _did_ when emotional situations like this cropped up – but whatever words he'd managed to cobble together slipped soundlessly away. Somewhat further down the hall from them, partially hidden by the curve of the walls, the mess hall doors opened, spilling laughter and noise into the corridor, and two people walked amiably out of the raucous, deep in conversation. The one talking was his chief engineer, who he should be hiding in fear from, anyway. The one listening was his communications officer. Uhura.

Though he was probably doing himself more harm than good, Jim found that he couldn't take his eyes off her. She looked just a lovely as he'd always thought she did, usually a concept he was more than willing to share with her, in as obnoxiously complimentary tones as he could manage. But tonight, her appearance did more than earn her an appreciative once-over from her captain; it drove the breath from his lungs, albeit for entirely different reasons.

Guilt was a terrible beast of burden to bear, Jim thought, made more terrible for the fact that in this, at least, he absolutely knew that he was in the wrong. How could he not be? To have what he wanted, he would indeed have to fight for it – fight a beautiful woman who deserved better than to have some upstart cadet-slash-captain steal her lover out from under her (…now there was a mental image). But the tremendous desire to have this, to take this, to grasp at this possibility with both hands, was pounding in Jim's veins. He wanted this; he wanted Spock. Wasn't he, too, allowed to reach for what he wanted?

The indecision was like pain, as foreign to his nature as fire was to water.

Spock half-turned in the direction of the mess hall, and the complicated pause that resulted when he saw Uhura standing just outside the door, was very – telling. Jim waited, energy slipping from him slowly as the most likely result of this conversation presented itself: Spock would go to Uhura. He would go to her and Jim, left in the cold, would have to toddle off, licking his wounds of embarrassment, to carry out his original plans of hunting down Bones for a stupefying night of drinking and revelry. He waited, quite resigned, for his First to pronounce the sentence, neither eager to hear it, nor hopeful of its deferral. It seemed inevitable.

But Spock regarded Uhura for a very long time, longer than was strictly necessary, as she chattered amiably with the chief engineer with her back to them, and when he turned back to his captain, the look on his face was one that Jim found absolutely impossible to decipher.

"I told you that I have many personal issues for which I have yet to find closure. That remains true. Nothing has changed in this past week."

"Nothing had to," Jim assured him, with an ironically weak grin. "You know how I feel. But the ball's in your court Spock; you give the word and I'll follow it, no questions asked." He grinned in an attempt to lighten the mood. "Your every wish, Mr. Spock, is my command."

"I have many wishes," Spock said, in a clear, careful voice, which surprised Jim, because he'd thought his First's innate sense of propriety would have forced his voice to a murmur. "My greatest, as yet, is only that whatever choices are made here, the best solution is reached by them. I have found that our association has opened many new doors to me, Jim. Though the process has been unusual and fraught with conflict, I would not change what has occurred to bring us here, nor do I regret the reality of my new – perceptions. Even though it may have ultimately been easier and less burdensome not to have them."

"I told you Spock, you and me – we're not easy. We'll never be easy. That's what makes it so interesting."

"Indeed. It does not surprise me that you would say this; it seems that taking the simple and less exacting path is entirely contrary to your nature, Jim."

The Human grinned, in genuine good humor and approval. "I did tell you that we were getting to know each other, didn't I?"

"Yes. We are getting to know each other. Learning what – defines one another. In ways that we cannot yet realize." This seemed a little contemplative for Spock, almost nostalgic, and unusually forceful. Jim blinked at him, wondering if there was a hidden message in there that he was being asked to find.

"I am honored to accept your invitation to dinner, Jim. And I would enjoy the opportunity to play a game of chess with you."

Jim tried not to let his delight show through too obviously. "Yeah?"

"Indeed. I imagine the man who planned and implemented the sabotage of a complex computer imaging program, such as the Kobayashi Maru, would have a very particular and intriguing manner of strategy when it comes to chess –"

"Hey," Jim interrupted, wondering if he was being teased. "I have it on good authority that you'll pick up some of your best tricks from my particular and intriguing manner of strategy, with or without the chess board. And for the record, it wasn't sabotage. I didn't remove anything from your existing program, I just – altered the parameters a bit, to allow for an additional subroutine. That's not sabotage; that's innovative genius."

"As you wish," Spock said wryly, his very tone suggesting just what he thought of that. Jim beat back his own smile. "Nevertheless, I would be interested to see how your – assumed – genius serves you in a more interactive format, such as chess."

"Mr. Spock," Jim said, struggling to contain his animation, tamp it down into something less intense and more acceptable. "I would be delighted any day, any time, to teach you the finer points of losing chess to a superior opponent."

The dark eyes regarded him with solemn, but definite, pleasure. "You may, of course, try, Jim."

Jim wasn't sure why he did it, what made him stick his hand out in the traditional Human method of sealing a bargain. Maybe it was because the Ambassador had done it, or maybe it was because it seemed that every time he managed to touch Spock, everything began to make sense, even when moments before it had all seemed endlessly confusing. Whatever the reason, when the impulse struck him he didn't resist it, letting his intuition guide him where rational reasoning seemed to abandon him.

Still, he hadn't been expecting much from the gesture, even with his instincts prodding him. So he was very surprised when Spock reached out immediately, before he could take even a moment to consider pulling his proffered hand back; more than surprised when the Vulcan clasped it tightly and shook it once firmly and – _did_ _not_ _let go_. There was a wealth of possession in his grip, a sort of proprietary need that Jim recognized from the recklessly dangerous moments of emotion that had flared between them this last week. The feel of it, the flashover of energy meeting between them at even this, so brief a contact, made the urgent need for more slither through Jim like a sly, fickle serpent.

It was wrong to think this, to consider this; he knew that. Spock had already as good as told him that things couldn't move beyond this point until a proper balance of choices and consequences was reached between them, and yet…

Taking a chance, he slid the length of their palms closer together, until they weren't so much clasping hands as holding them, until the guarded tendrils of presence hovering at the edge of his perception sharpened into a tangible depth. He gathered what felt like, to him, the roots of the hope and affection and desire that this conversation had given him, and sent it across the bridge of their contact. Then he waited, to see if Spock would pull away.

Spock did not pull away. He didn't return the gesture, either, physically or mentally, but then, he didn't have to. The absence of withdrawal was enough. More than enough. _Vulcans don't like to be touched, after all,_ Jim thought, smiling.

Vulcans don't like to be touched – except by those they want to touch them.

"Come on Spock," he said quietly, trying to bury his sudden feeling of euphoria and fairly sure he failed miserably at it. "Let's go see what friendship between Humans and Vulcans looks like. The rest will come… (how had the Ambassador put it?) …with the fullness of time."

And Spock smiled at him – _smiled!_ – just slightly, the smallest turning up of lips, and it was such a familiar expression from his older self's face that it made Jim stare in slack-jawed amazement.

"I would enjoy the opportunity to share that time with you," Spock said.

~*~*~

Uhura, watching them reenter the turbolift together, in perfect harmony and perfect agreement, wasn't sure that she could have let them leave if she hadn't seen the depth of their connection right then and there. She hadn't been privy to their entire conversation; only half, maybe even less than that. But her hearing was acute; it had to be, in her profession, and they'd been standing in a relatively empty corridor, not terribly far from the mess hall where she was contentedly listening to Scotty wax poetic about his beloved engines. Her hearing was at least as proficient as a Vulcan's; Spock knew that, had commented on it more than once as one of her instructors at the Academy. He had to have known that she couldn't be ignorant to the fact that they were there.

He might have even, she thought, used this opportunity to give her a clear path of insight into what was happening here. It was the sort of thing Spock would do – give her a gracious way out, ease her into understanding without directly telling her a word, because once he decided on that word, it would be quick and firm and unbending. Even if he was still considerate.

What she had heard was fairly innocent – but, of course, more than enough to fill her in on certain salient facts about the situation at hand. And Jim Kirk was more lucky than he knew that Nyota didn't believe in violence, or the Enterprise might have been short one Captain by as early as tomorrow morning.

He was luckier still that Uhura was, first and foremost, a sensitive and compassionate soul, and that she was wise enough to see that in the quiet spaces between the captain and the first officer, there was something unique expanding, growing in the energy between them. Something rare and intense and _passionate_, and she wondered how the old Vulcan had known, how he'd seen this coming when she hadn't, and truly if she would ever find it in her heart to forgive him for what she suspected he'd encouraged.

But of course she would. Eventually. Because in the end, a relationship that could be had by holding something caged that must be free to make its own choices – that wasn't part of any life she wanted to live.

They'd been friends before they were lovers; they'd be friends again, of that she had no doubts. They'd be respectful about it, amicable, and even reasonable – they were reasonable people. She was grateful she hadn't had time to fall in love with him, though she did love him – enough to let him go, if that's what he needed.

She had, after all, promised herself that she would never ask for more from Spock than he was willing to give her.

~*~*~

On a colony far behind the Enterprise, a similar line of thought was echoing through another mans mind as he turned his head to scan the skies for one last sight of a ship he knew, rationally, was beyond his scope of vision. The Enterprise was long gone by now, taking the people aboard her far beyond the reach of this planet; and the thought of it was both terrible and wonderful at the same time, exciting and yet – bleak. Memories trickled through his thoughts, memories of an old friend long gone, a love preserved, the ashes of a world that was never meant to die. And in the midst of chaos, as had always been their wont, two men who, against all odds, had found their way amongst entire universes to each other. With perhaps just a tiny kernel of help from a certain Vulcan Ambassador

_What irony,_ the elder thought, _that in this new universe it is I, not Jim, who understands the various consequences and vagaries of emotion and am fluent enough in this language to know when to act on that clarity of knowledge._

They would never know, he mused. They would likely never even suspect that for the second time in this reality (and hopefully this was not to become a habit) he had implied something that was – untrue. Or not – completely true.

They would never understand, and he preferred it that way, that in giving them this push toward a love, a joining, that could be tremendously, exquisitely _right_, he'd given them something he'd never even dreamed of having – until the opportunity for it was gone. To ignore such potential for joy in the passing of time, in the complacency of believing there would always be a tomorrow to take that final step, was an illogical and unconscionable waste, a mistake – one he had paid for, dearly, for all these many long years. He would take great consolation in knowing that in this strangely compelling other life, he'd set things on the path they'd always been meant to travel, even though he would never know the wonder of having walked it himself.

It was right, he decided. And one day, perhaps, it would not hurt so dearly, but for now he accepted that pain often results from new beginnings, and that the path slowly unfolding from his actions was too amazing and incredible a thing to mourn, or even to envy.

He had Jim again, in friendship (a friendship he intended quite fiercely to keep), as he always had – and so did his younger self, even though that having was to be vastly and delightfully different. How could there be mourning in that?

Both sorrow and joy were, as James Kirk had so long ago taught him, meant to be shouldered together, the burden shared, always. So he pulled the child, T'Sai, against him, in as Human a gesture as his old friend could ever have wished, and they turned, united, to face their future. He walked forward into it, and knew that though it seemed grim, one day, closer for some and further for others, it would be a bright and wondrous thing.

End Chapter Ten

A/N: For the people who've been wondering, I hope Spock Prime's motivations for being a meddling yenta are now clear. This was my line of thinking:

A lot of the Reboot fandom is based on the idea that the Prime's were lovers, but what if that wasn't true? What if they were just beloved friends who never took that chance on each other until it was too late? What wouldn't a man in a position to change his (own – alternates – whatever's) past, to fix the regret of a lifetime, do to see that possibility made reality? So sometimes Prime was subtle, and a lot of times he was over-the-top – that was deliberate. I wanted this to be a man in a very precarious position; the position of being able to give his other self the love he'd never had, but having to deliberately break a few eggs for that omelet, and feeling badly enough to care that what he's doing will have consequences – but not enough to stop him.

So, knowing some of the likely reactions to this chapter, I have posted the epilogue with it, so that you can see how things really turn out. ^^


	11. Epilogue

Breaking Points

Epilogue

By: Ragdoll / Keshka

Summary: Nothing in his life could have prepared him for what he was discovering here.

~*~

_Sometime In The Future…_

Chess, like any other game of strategy, was an intellectual pursuit of the highest order, and not, Jim was well aware, a game to be taken lightly. It was a complex combination of planning, subterfuge, brazen bluffing, sheer nerve, ruthlessness, and an elegant execution of style. There might also be a little dumb luck in there, although if there were, Jim would never tell Spock that; the Vulcan didn't believe in luck. But while the merits of unexpected chance were something he'd had no success in teaching his First, other Human characteristics were rapidly becoming key points of interest between them.

"Wait," Jim said breathlessly, torn between genuine irritation and absurd laughter. He tried to bat away the hands that reached for him so slyly, but his protests were halfhearted at best, and they both knew it. Not to mention the fact that Spock didn't look in the least willing to take anything less than 'yes' for an answer. "Dammit Spock; I had that game won in three moves; check and mate! Trying to sweeten your odds with underhanded attempts at distraction is practically _cheating_!"

"Indeed," Spock agreed, trailing his mouth from the shell of Jim's ear, where it had been determinedly examining the Human's anatomical differences, to the corner of his mouth, where he pressed a soft, exploratory kiss. "If so, I believe I am finally beginning to understand the benefits of this 'cheating'. But perhaps I am being hypocritical; should I desist?"

"If you stop I might have to kill you," Jim moaned, partially in agreement with the hypocrite comment, but mostly in response to the way the Vulcan had tipped his head up and was now nibbling down the length of his neck. "Oh, Christ, do that again. And you – ah, right there, yes – just don't want to admit that I would have had you in check – ngh – in two moves."

"Three," Spock corrected him, biting down lightly on the juncture of neck and shoulder.

"What?"

"Three moves." The Vulcan shifted him, pulling until Jim was sitting astride his knees, legs splayed to either side of his lap. Dark, feverish eyes glittered up at him in carefully concealed amusement.

"Moves to what?" Jim gasped, arching sinuously at the first touch of hot hands settling with casual strength at the apex of his hips and pressing him further down.

"Precisely," Spock murmured.

The banter was familiar; lighthearted and relaxing, but the heat rising between them was by far the more blissful indulgence. Jim would never have pegged a Vulcan as a spirited, almost impishly playful bed partner, but he couldn't deny that Spock, at least, didn't believe in excluding the word 'fun' from the bedroom. Or the shower. Or the sitting area. Or the jefferies tubes, either, come to think of it, though that was one incident unlikely to be repeated, or spoken of, again, either by him, his First, or his chief engineer. Jim now had conclusive proof – proof he could really rather have done without – that the Enterprise bulkheads were not, in fact, as soundproof as he'd been led to believe.

Nimble fingers plucking at the belt of his casual black slacks told Jim to get his mind out of previously cleaned-out gutters, so they could work on exploring new ones. While Spock began to unbuckle the metal snaps, Jim shimmied out of the rest of his clothes, and then hindered his lover when he impatiently tried to tug both of the Vulcan's shirts right over his head without removing his arms from the sleeves.

Distracted from his economic efficiency, Spock gave him an arch glare that clearly said _'see here, if we're going to do this, you could at least _try_ to do it _right'_,_ which Jim grinned at, completely unrepentant. When the Vulcan reached up, trying to unwind his arms from all the fabric, Jim slid down his thighs a bit, until he was much closer, and licked delicately at the muscular chest that was exposed. Half hidden by his own undershirt, Spock stilled, and the Human took the opportunity to caress one of the flat, olivine nipples until it stiffened in his mouth enticingly, then bit down on it, too lightly to hurt but too hard to ignore.

The all-over shudder he received for his efforts was more than worth the crick in his neck that was likely to result.

Laughing at his own eagerness, Jim helped Spock struggle out of the last of the offending clothing, locking their mouths together in a sloppy, smiling kiss. He nudged his tongue past the guarding teeth, sucking on that bottom lip and letting soundless pants of air escape him, just the way he knew Spock liked it. Jim had been utterly taken aback by the reaction he got the first time he'd ever moaned his lover's name in the heat of passion; the response had been inspiring, to say the least. Spock liked to hear the sounds of his excitement, liked to have his senses inundated with Jim's pleasure, and being a hedonist of the highest order, the captain was more than happy to oblige him in that. They hadn't quite gotten to the point of dirty talk, but it wouldn't be long now. Even the thought forced another breathless stutter of air from Jim's lips, drove the heat up another notch.

"Let's move this to the bed," he gasped, arching back shamelessly when a hard, proprietary hand settled at the prominent edge of his collarbone and dragged slowly all the way down his body, reaching his heavy, aching cock and wrapping slowly around it. Two smooth strokes were enough to make Jim's toes curl, clenching all his muscles hard. If Spock hadn't had his other hand at the small of Jim's back, holding him up, he probably would have fallen.

"Bed!" he demanded.

"No," Spock countered, not stopping his rhythm. "I prefer it here."

"What, so you can watch the chessboard? The sight of the pawns does it for you? That's – ah, yes! – positively perverse of you, Spock."

"So I can watch you," the Vulcan corrected, and Jim had to reward him with a kiss, deep and throaty and inelegant and wonderful. The hand on his cock feathered up the shaft with each thrust of their tongues, but the thumb rubbing roughly over the tip was what made Jim break it off, burying his teeth in the side of Spock's neck with a groan.

"Mm, that's good ," he muttered, snaking a hand down to return the favor, feeling the hard length of his lover in his hand, warm and solid. "That's very good."

Spock's response to being touched wasn't quite as obvious, but the way he leaned his head back to offer Jim more access to his throat spoke volumes. Happy to oblige, Jim set to work peppering that ghostly pale skin with the sort of bruising only a bed partner should be privy to.

Their weight leaning back on the chair made it creak ominously, but Jim ignored it. He knew their position was precarious; a little further forward or backward and they'd tip over, but Jim trusted Spock to hold them. His First's greater strength was an aspect of his physiology the Human took frequent advantage of; Jim had a lot of fantasies in his sexual arsenal, and Spock's more versatile abilities definitely made a few of the impossible ones – possible.

Further aroused at the very thought, Jim shuffled forward until their hips meshed together, hissing at the contact of their cocks, trapped in the friction of their bodies. Keeping that central point of connection, he leaned back to the very edge of his balance. Resting at least half his weight on Spock's supporting hand, he locked his arms for support, wrapped his legs around the Vulcan's waist and began an even, gentle rocking.

It didn't take long, after that. The tempo was steady, crackling with energy, but languid, sensual rather than overtly sexual. It was a happy medium between Jim's more usual quick-and-easy bedroom encounters, and Spock's preference for slower, exquisitely demanding ones. This rhythm was one they'd designed with the intention of driving one another to the brink with desire, and it was highly effective at doing so. Orgasm was so swift, in fact, that it almost caught Jim by surprise, jumping him from behind and settling into his shuddering bones an instant behind his lover. Spock was almost always silent at the moment of climax, but he sometimes couldn't find his voice for entire minutes afterwards, a fact that often filled Jim with insufferably smug pride.

In the aftermath, they did move to the bed, cleaning up with lazy efficiency (meaning Jim was lazy, and Spock was efficient) and settling on the single sleeping unit in a snug tangle of limbs. Jim drowsed, resting his head contentedly on Spock's shoulder and shivering in the warm air as he felt the sweat begin to cool and dry. In deference to Spock's higher Vulcan temperature, the captain kept his quarters moderately hot, hovering somewhere between their two comfort zones, and his lover paid him the same courtesy. The result wasn't exactly ideal, but they were both learning to compromise in this, as with many things, by keeping the greater goal in mind – each other. It was surprising, really, the sheer amount of things they were both willing to make adjustments over.

It had been almost five months since Ambassador Spock had spent ten days turning their lives upside down aboard the Enterprise. In that time, Jim had surprised himself by spending inordinate amounts of his recreation hours keeping his friendship with the older man current. They sent each other weekly or biweekly missives that were full of anything from the latest mission antics to the exploits and efforts of Vulcan's new colony. He put more effort into maintaining his friendship with the Ambassador than he ever had into any other relationship – aside from the one with his First – and every minute was worth it. Both Spocks were worth it. The irony of attempting to cultivate two relationships with one man, represented in two 'versions', was not, in any way, lost on Jim.

However, these difficulties _had_ given him a new appreciation for his chief medical officer. Bones might be a sarcastic bastard as well as a great friend, but he also had the merit of being relatively low-maintenance in comparison to the two Vulcans in Jim's life (not that he would ever tell them that, for fear of prolonged lecturing, strangulation, death, etc).

And if he sometimes felt like he was walking over his own grave when he spoke to the Ambassador – and if he sometimes felt like their relationship was the most exquisite combination of pain and pleasure for the older man – well, it wasn't enough for them to end it. Barring universal destruction, Jim wasn't sure that anything would be enough for them to end it. The friendship was – incalculably valuable. Cherished. Immutable.

The relationship between he and Spock (the Younger) had also seen some dramatic growth these past months, and it hadn't been an easy road, by any stretch of the imagination. Between zipping from one half of the galaxy to the other on missions, there were times he and Spock barely had time to breathe, let alone discuss anything of importance.

The beginning had been especially difficult. Being reasonably intelligent men, they'd both been very aware that though the potential was obviously there, their counterparts must have built a partnership over a great deal of time and mutual effort. It hadn't taken long for them to realize that they were trying to function on a level it had taken their future selves years to reach, trying to operate off a degree of familiarity that simply didn't exist yet. At first, circumventing all that seemed impossible, but they were very determined (and Jim had been more than willing to play on Spock's involuntary possessiveness to encourage greater effort; it was something he felt guilty enough not to do often, but not guilty enough to stop).

So, armed with their future knowledge, they'd set out to build a relationship, and their progress had been, in a word, astounding. Also astonishing, according to certain quarters (McCoy, for a very loud example). They now spent many evenings together, dining, playing chess (Jim was annoyed to lose at least half those matches, if not more, while Spock was amazed at losing any), and occasionally just having involved debates over a variety of topics. Jim was a little surprised at how easy it was, really, considering how badly they'd clashed in the beginning, but what should have taken years was rapidly condensed in the knowledge that a greater link lay somewhere further down the road.

They still butted heads on all manner of things, often coming to heated words over opinions neither of them was willing to back down from, with Jim getting repeatedly angry about Spock's overly rational views and Spock sniping (quite stoically) about Jim's overt emotionalism. But the captain could honestly say that each time it happened, it only seemed to fortify their connection, rather than choke it. He'd never quite found another personality that so paralleled his own, strengthening him simply for being there. It was both a very heady and very frightening sensation (again, not something he was going to admit to out loud).

The intensity and the energy that gave rise to their various conflicts transferred from one aspect of their lives to the next with no obvious difficulty. The first time they'd had sex, the sheer magnetism of it just about slammed Jim into unconsciousness – and it was only the thought of his absolute humiliation if he did so that had kept him awake and aware. The passion of The Briefing Room Incident hadn't died with time – it had transformed into an immense heat, into a spark of _wanting_, of _having_, that was the truest reflection of that passion, tempered by genuine affection and desire. Jim had shared a hundred meaningless moments with other people, a thousand that were less than meaningless, and only a handful that had ever meant anything. Nothing came close to this – this all, this _everything_, that he had with Spock. Nothing in his life could have prepared him for what he was discovering here.

The jump from friendship to lovers hadn't been a straightforward one; there were a million and one issues to consider, even in the thought of it. But they'd made their decisions on that day in the corridor, which seemed so long ago now, and they were determined to see them through.

The issues with the command structure, not combining their personal and professional concerns, took a great deal of focus, but not as much as Jim had feared. They actually performed better together as Captain and First, even when they disagreed about something. But it was a balance they worked at maintaining hourly, and Jim was just waiting for the day when they ran into a snag they couldn't compromise on – and it all went to hell. He had a bottle of Saurian Brandy set aside for just such an event, as well a as a cleverly devised list of instructions for how to make Spock see reason when he inevitably decided that their relationship was detrimental to the ship and should be discontinued. Jim had no intention allowing that, and if he had to tie Spock to the chair to make him listen to reason, he was fully prepared to do so (and that image contained a plethora of possibilities, really, not all of them on Jim's official list).

Friends and colleagues had been another hitch in the road. It had taken Jim eight weeks to work up the courage to tell Bones, and Spock, the coward, had made it a point to be elsewhere on the ship when the confrontation had gone down. And confrontation it had been. Jim suspected the resulting explosion of incredulity and disbelief following his announcement would been sufficient to inform the entire crew – if he hadn't had the presence of mind to lock them in the good doctor's office, which was, he was relieved to note, remarkably more sound proof than the Enterprise bulkheads.

The situation with Uhura was bad – but not as bad as it could have been. She and Spock were as tight as ever, a circumstance that Jim admitted made him a little uneasy (though he was prepared to swear up, down, and on whatever religious deity struck him at the time, that it couldn't possibly be jealousy). The only thing that seemed to have changed for those two was lack of physical encounters. Jim sometimes got the feeling that Uhura would love to meet him in a dark alley somewhere and give him his own physical encounter – of the less sexual, more deadly, phaser-on-kill-setting kind. The one conversation they'd so far managed to have about the unfortunate situation they found themselves in had been painfully awkward and unproductive, and had gone a little bit like:

"Uhura, I just wanted to say I'm sorry for playing the Big Bad Wolf to your Little Red Riding Hood, and if there's anything I can do to make it up to you –"

"You can promise not to hurt him, but I think that's more a matter of looking out for yourself than for me. You do know what happens to the wolf in that story, don't you? There might be more airlocks and less happy endings in my version, but you get the picture."

"So, apology accepted then? Glad to see we're in agreement on this one. Thank you so much for your concern for my welfare. Have a nice day now."

And that, as they say, was that. He and his communications officer were actually quite civil to each other, all things considered, but he thought it would be a long time, if ever, before they were friends.

Other problems cropped up – sometimes daily, sometimes not – but none of them seemed substantial enough to consider putting a stop to what was, Jim wasn't too proud to admit, the most important relationship he'd ever had, or might ever have, in his life. And though he didn't say so in as many words, Jim knew Spock felt the same.

Reminded that the object of his contemplations was lounging contentedly beneath him, Jim floated back up from the light doze he'd fallen into. He absentmindedly traced his hand down the length of his lovers body, feeling the minute differences between them: the higher body temperature, obviously, but also the texture of skin, the throb of a higher pulse rate, the deeper thrum in his side, where Spock's heart was located. Jim liked these differences – they were unique to his experience, and they reminded him each time that the person he was building this relationship with was exceptional, and more than worth the effort. Not that he needed reminding; he had the word of a certain Vulcan Ambassador to back him on that, and if anyone should know, it would be him.

"Hmm," he murmured, brushing his thumb teasingly over a nipple, which pebbled immediately at his touch. He wasn't quite ready for another round so soon, but sometimes he enjoyed just exploring his lover, enjoyed watching his body react in ways he had little control over (or chose not to control). Sometimes Spock was even willing to let him, pretending ignorance of his own reactions, until it became obvious to them both that they couldn't be neglected anymore. Not tonight, it seemed – though Spock's breath caught just a little at the feathery touch, Jim shortly found his hand captured and pressed flat over the Vulcan's abdomen. Giving in gracefully, he stilled, enjoying the feel of Spock's fingers smoothing carefully over his own.

"Do you know what today is Spock?" he murmured, hovering in that pleasant zone between full awareness and light dreaming.

"Of course."

Annoyed at this conclusive and unimaginative answer, Jim opened one eye to glare at him fondly. "That was a rhetorical question. I know you know the stardate, probably down to the minutes and seconds and milliseconds. But did you also know that today is exactly three months since the first time we had sex?"

"Not exactly, Jim. It is three months, one day, twenty-two hours, one –"

"So, as it's been _exactly_ _three months_ since the first day we had wildly inappropriate sex – in this bed, I might add – there are certain concerns I feel should now be brought to your attention. Would you like to hear what it is about today's date that makes these concerns stand out for me?"

"Yes, Jim," Spock confirmed resignedly, not rolling his eyes, the Human suspected, only because it would be a severe breach of Vulcan etiquette. "I would be fascinated to learn what it is about today that had caught your attention."

"Well, three months is a long time by my standards, you know, Spock. Long enough to start telling each other things aside from our opinions on the justice system of Rigel IV, or the current theories of quantum mechanics. Things like our favorite foods, which I suppose we've already discussed, favorite recreational activities, favorite sexual positions, favorite colors –"

"I have already informed you of all those things –"

"And I'll maintain until my dying day that black is not a color, and can't possibly be a favorite anything. But, in any case, I figure if you can tell me that, you can certainly tell me things like… oh, I don't know. When your birthday is."

Spock said nothing, and in the ensuing silence, Jim popped open the other eye to stare up at him.

"Spock, why didn't you tell me today was your birthday?"

The hand resting so casually on top of his tightened briefly, and then relaxed, resuming its former motion of aimless patterning. "How did you know?" Spock asked, his voice a low baritone rumble beneath Jim's ear.

"It's in your personnel file."

"You accessed my personnel file in order to ascertain my date of birth?" The eyebrow sweeping upward was so obvious that even if Jim hadn't seen it, he'd have known it was happening. He grinned, propping himself up on his elbows so he could peer from a more comfortable angle into his lover's face.

"Yep. Right after that day on the bridge, just following The Briefing Room Incident."

"I still do not understand your amusement with that term."

"You will, one day," Jim assured him. "Just think: someday soon my sense of humor will be so familiar to you, you'll wonder how you ever made do without it."

"I have my doubts," Spock remarked dryly, and Jim, utterly charmed by his facetious ill-manners, kissed him noisily and with great fanfare on the tip of his nose, just to piss him off. The look Spock gave him promised revenge of a terribly uncomfortable sort.

"So, why didn't you tell me?"

"It did not seem important," Spock admitted with a shrug that lifted and dropped them both with the motion. He didn't often shrug – it was a very Human gesture, and one he usually confined to those moments where he was most comfortable. Jim always took note of the circumstances that spawned those shrugs, usually filing them away to be repeated at a later date. "As I have told you in the past – my people do not celebrate a date of birth, nor the passing of a single year in one's life. There are several coming of age ceremonies within a Vulcan's adolescence, but most are arrived at quite early, and none are celebrated this late in adulthood."

"Is the giving of gifts offensive in your culture?" Jim asked, lacing their hands together again. The fizzle of energy particular to Spock's mind brushed against Jim through the contact of their fingers, and the Human let his eyes drift closed, the better to savor the sensation.

"No, though the giving of material possessions is unofficially regarded as wasteful."

"Mm." Momentarily distracted, Jim pressed the full length of his middle and index fingers to Spock in the Vulcan equivalent of a telepathic kiss. "Okay, so Vulcans don't celebrate their birthdays, but they don't disdain the practice of it, in theory, then."

"Correct."

"In that case, Spock, I think I have a gift I'd like to give you."

"A gift?" Spock murmured, tracing the whirls of their fingerprints together in a mesmerizing pattern of languid tenderness. Jim stopped him, before the heady sensation of rising arousal could flood over, multiplied as it was by the psychic echo of their feelings looping between them.

"Yes. It's from the Ambassador too. Let's call it a mutual gift-giving."

"The Ambassador?" Sounding a little more awake, Spock peered at him, looking mildly affronted at having their afterglow interrupted for the impractical consideration of a gift, for a birthday he barely acknowledged.

"Come here," Jim coaxed, positioning them until they were lying face to face, with Jim's hands resting comfortably against his lover, one bracketing that tempting nipple and the other circling his waist. Well used to what this position usually entailed by now, Spock easily fitted his hands to the meld points on Jim's face, though the Vulcan made no move to connect them. His eyebrow did the talking for him, quirking expectantly, and Jim smiled.

"I meant come here in the literal and figurative sense. Meld us Spock – I have something to show you."

Looking more and more curious by the moment, the other half-whispered the Vulcan mantra, "my mind to your mind…" and their thoughts sped together, like water taking the path of least resistance and merging at a well-defined juncture.

_A gift, T'hy'la?_ Spock asked, though his mind wasn't totally consumed by the question. As always, he couldn't help but run his mental fingers through the landscape of their minds, combing through it as a barber combs and arranges hair. They melded often, but not overly so, and the pleasure of seeing his lover in such a way was a priceless gift, never to be taken for granted.

_Yes,_ Jim replied, pulling him along in a way Spock suspected he would never quite get used to. His older self had given much to his captain – too much perhaps, as there were times Jim demonstrated a particular telepathic sensitivity or skill that should not actually be his, and each of these moments was startling to Spock. The Vulcan did his best not to think too deeply on the implications of this; it was enough that the unexpected aptitude eased the burden of their slowly burgeoning relationship, it need mean nothing else unless they choose to make it so.

_Here_.

Spock looked, and saw – something that should not have been.

_What is this?_ he asked, fascinated in spite of himself. What the Human saw, he wasn't certain, but to his well-disciplined mind, the foreign nature of this object in Jim's subconscious was particularly obvious. For a moment, a deeply troubled sense of worry flooded through him, the thought that Jim had been telepathically mined or attacked at some point in the past, that this was evidence of a violation Spock have never looked closely enough to notice.

_Don't be an idiot,_ Jim thought fondly at him. _It seems foreign only because you don't recognize the flavor of your own thoughts, changed though they are through differing experiences._

_The Ambassador left this?_ Spock asked, startled. Looking at the object through this new perspective, incredulity and amazement struck him as he realized the nature of the reserve hidden in his captain's innermost self. _Do you understand what it is he has done, what placing this cache in your mind actually entails? Did he explain the delicacy, the enormity, of it to you?_

_Yes. And now you're going to understand what it means too. Open it._

Utterly incapable of withholding his fascination any longer, Spock did as he was bid. And in the resulting storm of memory and light and brilliance, only the anchor of his T'hy'la kept him grounded and sane, kept him from flying apart at the seams; kept things _real_. And above the maelstrom, one thought echoed distinct and clearly between them, around them, within them:

_Her name was Amanda._

End Breaking Points.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who stuck with me to the end. :-) A special thank you to Amanda Warrington, my wonderful beta reader, who keeps me on the straight (not-so-straight) and narrow, and who has not actually seen this epilogue as she's out enjoying life, so any problems with it are mine; I'm aware there are more typo's here than my last few posts. Sorry. ^^ I know Breaking Points was a hard, angsty ride, but I hope in the end it was worth it, just as Jim thinks Spock was worth it! Thank you again for you time, patience, and for giving me your thoughts. :-)

And for anyone who didn't see my bio, I am leary of posting stories containing sex (I considered not posting this here) on FF. net, for personal reasons. I have had issues with them in the past. Therefore, since any future K/S stories will likely contain more of it, I will be posting them to my **LJ only**. It's listed as my homepage if you're interested, and if not, thank you anyway for reading to the end of this! I appreciate all your thoughts and every review! Cheers!


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